


Finding Bambi

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tale of hurt and comfort pure and simple.</p><p>It is a tale of inner-strength, of family, of love, of despair, of patience, of taking it one step at a time …</p><p>… and of wrenches.</p><p>The brothers have dealt with a lot, coped with a lot over the years. How will they cope with the most devastating injury that either of them has ever sustained?</p><p>Hurt/Comfort/Angst/Humour ... bit of everything really. Rated T for the odd naughty word and bears no particular resemblance to canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Depressing grey-green hospital walls drifted in and out of focus as Sam sat; his cold hands picking absently at the hem of his faded plaid shirt. Staring forlornly into space, he wondered if there was a name for the range of miserable colours that every single hospital on the planet seemed to be painted in. Did they go out of their way to find the most cheerless, soul-sapping colours they could find?

'Gan-green,' he decided he would call it and almost smiled at the thought; it fitted perfectly.

He thought back to the evening's events. The doctor's words; those terrible words the man had imparted with an air of solemn concern after Sam had arrived wild-haired and panting into the hospital's reception, whirled in Sam's mind; repeating over and over again, a blizzard of dread and dire thoughts as he tried to make sense of a situation which was beyond all rational thought.

Dean had only wanted candy ...

xxxxx

Five hours … five long, agonising hours Dean had been in surgery and still not a hint of goddamned news. Sam had given up asking, all he had got for his trouble was the odd cup of vending machine coffee and a sympathetic bordering on patronising pat on the the forearm from a short, dumpy nurse called Brenda. 'Don't worry,' Brenda had consoled; 'Dean's in good hands'.

Don't worry? Was she for real? She might as well have asked him not to digest his lunch.

Sam sighed; five hours … what does it mean if they're taking a long time? Is it good, does it mean they're trying to fix stuff?

Or is it bad?

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to retrieve his runaway train of thought before it derailed entirely.

'Worst case scenario.'

That's what the doctor had said; Sam tried to hide behind the words. 'Worst case scenario.'

Doctors only say that stuff so that they won't get their assess sued off if things go wrong. Most people don't worry about the 'worst case scenario' because everyone knows that only happens to other people; of course the flip side of that is 'worst case scenario' is daily life when you're a Winchester.

He should call Bobby; they would need the older man's help, there would be all sorts of arrangements to make if … oh God, Sam's head dropped into his hand, he could barely think of the consequences.

How would Dean cope?

Sam felt the adrenalin racing around his system, forcing his heart into a rapid and dizzying cadence and he found himself closing his eyes, deep breathing to try to compose himself.

Get a grip Sam Winchester; Dean won't be able to cope at all if his brother's a snivelling wreck.

… In through the mouth, out through the nose …

Sam worked hard to calm himself, if the good old 'worst case scenario' did come to pass, Dean would need him over the coming months; need him more than he had ever needed him before.

Sam knew Dean was strong, sure. He was the strongest person Sam knew; but his strength was self-perpetuating. He was strong because he was strong. Take away his physical strength and his psychological strength would wither away and vanish with it.

He blinked, looking back up at the bleak expanse of gan-green where his attention was grabbed by a dog-eared poster which had completely escaped his notice for the last five hours. It showed a creepily perfect nuclear family looking deliriously happy whilst munching on a bunch of carrot sticks and extolling the virtues of a high fibre diet.

Sam stared at it with a scowl; "no-one smiles that much," he thought; "I don't know how stoned I'd have to be to smile like that." Right at this moment, he wasn't sure if he would ever smile again.

xxxxx

Jolting out of his musings, Sam's mind snapped back to his previous purpose; Bobby, he must call Bobby. He should know; he'll be able to help.

Rummaging in his pocket for his phone, Sam sat staring at it, as if he had forgotten how to use it. A million flickering images, none of them good; cascaded around the distracted kaleidoscope that was his mind.

Doctors weren't always right, were they?

I mean; most of the time you hoped they were, but occasionally, just occasionally, there were times that you hoped they weren't.

This was so one of those times.

Sam sighed as he watched two porters stroll past him, affording him a perfunctory nod as they chatted casually, seemingly without a care in the world.

Suddenly he was distracted by a tinny whisper; looking down he realised it was coming from his phone. He had sat there and dialled Bobby's number as a completely unconscious and automatic act.

"Are ya sittin' on ya damn phone again ya great idjit?" The voice, scarcely more than the buzz of a peeved honeybee, demanded irritably.

Lifting the phone to his ear with a shaking hand, Sam swallowed harshly before speaking. "Hey, Bobby;" he muttered hesitantly.

Immediately the timbre of the voice changed. The irritablity drained out of it, and it was replaced by a soft tone of warm concern.

"Hey Sam; y'ok kid?"

Sam took a deep breath; "No, Bobby," he hesitated, forming the words carefully in his mind before he spoke; "I'm at the hospital; there's been an accident …"

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

This whole crap-filled day had started fairly badly and kinda gone downhill from there …

An early-morning run-in with a witch the brothers had been tailing for several days had been eventful to say the least.

"A beloved friend," the witch had said; "a beloved friend would hurt Dean more than he had ever been hurt before;" the venomous whisper rode on her dying breath.

The worst kind of pain; that inflicted by a loved one.

Appropriate payback according to the witch for the kind of pain that she had suffered at Dean's hand; namely the four bullets he had pumped into her.

Dean didn't give a flying damn. The ramblings of a dying witch were a complete irrelevance to him. The job was done, the townsfolk were safe.

Sam, however, was not quite so blasé, and Dean's confident assertion that "she's talkin' crap - nothing's gonna happen," did little to soothe Sam's growing sense of unease.

xxxxx

Over lunch, Sam repeated his concerns, wincing as Dean forked an entire onion ring into his mouth.

"Anyway," Dean mumbled juicily round the chewed wreckage of the onion ring; "she's talkin' through her ass; we haven't even got any friggin' friends – beloved or otherwise!"

Sam grimaced at the sight - it was like sitting opposite a combine harvester. "There's Bobby," he offered.

Dean shook his head, pushing six fries into his mouth; "he's family, he don't count as a friend."

Sam gritted his teeth in exasperation; "I don't suppose she was concerned with semantics."

Dean took another bite of his burger without even looking up.

"You don't know what she's done;" Sam snorted through clenched teeth, leaning over the table to try to engender some sense of self preservation in his brother; "I think we should hole up somewhere for the next few days so if things do get crappy for any reason, we've got a base."

Dean rolled his eyes as he noisily sucked a mouthful of coke up his straw.

"I don't see why jus' 'cause of some skanky bitch's babbling, you're getting your boxers in a knot," he observed sympathetically; "she didn't even point at me."

Sam slumped back in his seat; "yeah but did you see that amulet round her neck? I mean, that's seriously dark stuff man, you can practically think a curse with that thing."

Dean hesitated briefly mid-chew, seemingly giving some thought to what Sam had said before resuming his convincing impression of a plague of locusts.

"Dean, we could wake up tomorrow and find that Bobby's got an incantation wrong and turned you into a ferret or something."

Dean gave a shrug, accompanied by a twitch of the eyebrows which seemed to indicate he wasn't entirely averse to the idea of being a ferret.

"It's no good if we're on a hunt or something and something bad happens, one of us could get hurt," Sam offered.

Dean grunted apathetically with another shrug.

"The fugly could get away …"

"No way dude, not from me; even if I was a ferret," Dean replied with a curt shake of the head.

"You could get injured or sick and lose your looks," Sam narrowed his eyes artfully.

Dean hesitated for a moment before dropping the screwed up burger wrapper onto the plate and stifling a soft burp with greasy fingers.

"Oh, whatever, Samantha if it'll make you feel better …"

xxxxx

Deciding to put a healthy few hundred miles between the witch's hometown and their next destination, it was dusk before the Impala rolled smoothly into the parking lot of a motel which looked marginally less fleabitten than any of the others they had passed on their journey.

Its white walls stood in stark isolation against the dense forest around it, a good few miles in either direction from the next source of civilisation; a state of affairs which suited the Winchesters very much indeed.

The key turned smoothly in the lock on the panelled door to room 9 of the Wild Acres Motel, and the brothers strolled in, dumping their duffels as they looked around with unspoken approval at the subdued coffee and crème décor of the room.

"Hey, the game's on tonight," Sam announced, as he folded his jacket over the back of a chair; "wanna chill and watch it?"

Dean grinned, he was starting to like this idea of resting up for a couple of days more and more.

This was gonna be the perfect night; at last they had found a half-decent room which appeared to be relatively free of mould and roaches and there was a good game on the TV. All they needed were the beers out of the trunk and a few snacks and …

Dean's brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked curiously.

Dean was already shrugging his jacket back on.

"No snacks, dude."

Sam cocked his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Snacks?"

Dean gestured towards the TV; "you can't expect me to sit in front of that thing and watch a game without some candy or chips."

Sam's mouth dropped open and he stared at his brother as if he was speaking fluent martian.

"Dean, it's getting dark and it's gotta be twenty miles back to the last gas mart we passed," his eyes widened in amazement; "you're not seriously considering driving all the way back there just because of your pathetic M&M craving."

"It's been hours since lunch; I'll be hungry by the time the game's halfway through," Dean replied irritably, "and for your information, I do not have an M&M craving."

"You're not pregnant are you?" Sam goaded.

"Kiss it." Dean snorted petulantly; "I'm goin' out to get some snacks which may – or may not – be M&M's," he gathered up the Impala's keys as he spoke; "do you want anything, or are you jus' gonna sit there later an' drool over mine, 'cos I ain't sharin'."

Sam grinned, he knew better than to get between Dean and his candy.

"Get me a couple of blueberry muffins."

Dean nodded smartly and the door slowly swung shut behind him.

xxxxx

… Ramble On, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song. I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl, on my way … 

Dean sang lustily along to the cassette player as the Impala powered along the deserted highway. He glanced across at the plastic bag on her passenger seat; family size packs of Cheetos and peanut M & M's stared back at him, together with a giant bottle of Pepsi and two blueberry muffins for Sam.

Yep, in hindsight, Sammy's idea to dig in and chill for a few days was a good one, not that Dean thought for one moment the witch bitch's dying words were anything to dwell on, but he was more than happy to humour baby brother on this occasion.

They were both battered and tired and could both benefit from a bit of rest and relaxation; the game tonight would be a great way to start it.

They badly needed to do some laundry; Dean had been wearing this same pair of socks for three days. This break would give them the opportunity to do that particularly unsavoury job; well, give Sam the opportunity to do it. Laundry was Sam's job. It was always Sam's job.

Also, Baby needed a wash and a wax. Now, that was a man's job; but not any man - it was Dean's job. He smiled and patted the steering wheel, "anyone wants to get their hands on my girl, they gotta get past me first, huh?"

The game; crap, what time was it?

Dean glanced at his watch. It was starting in about ten minutes; yep, he should make it in time if baby stretched her legs. He nudged the gas pedal, and she responded effortlessly with an obliging purr.

Relaxing back against the seat; he revelled in the potent thrum of her engine as she powered swiftly along the highway, and began to warble along to the next song.

"...There's a feeling I get when I look to the west, And my spirit is crying for leaving. In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, And the voices of those …"

… "HOLY SHIT!"

A moonlit flash of brown suddenly bolted out of the dense forest and tore across the road in front of him. Whipping the wheel round to avoid it, Dean let out a gasping yelp as the Impala skidded, tilting into a squealing spin across the damp asphalt.

Dean whirled into panic and confusion, the snacks tumbling across the seat into his lap. He panted harshly, cursing breathlessly as he yanked the wheel back and forth, trying desperately and vainly to rescue the situation.

He would later swear that his life played out before his panic-glazed eyes in the split second before baby's nearside front wheel clipped the verge by the side of the road.

The forest raced past her windows at a queasy angle, as she ploughed over the rain softened verge, slamming almost vertically hood-first into the uneven ground at the foot of a massive tree.

Tossed around like a rag doll inside the car, Dean heard the grinding crunch as her front end crumpled upwards in toward him with the catastrophic impact and almost immediately after, the hollow thud as his chest made heavy contact with the displaced steering column.

His world exploded into a brilliant white nova of blinding agony.

Then all was darkness and silence.

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

It was a good fifteen minutes into what was shaping up into a great game when Sam started getting antsy.

Where the hell was Dean?

He considered a brief scenario in his head; given Dean's preferred driving speed he figured no more than half an hour to the gas mart, five minutes to choose and pay for the picnic (okay, fifteen minutes if the server was pretty), then half an hour maximum back to the motel.

Sam glanced at his watch.

Surely Dean should have been back in time for the start of the game.

Rummaging in his pocket, he extracted his phone and called Dean's number, letting out a soft groan when it went straight to voicemail.

He tried and failed to convince himself there was no reason to worry; Dean didn't always pick up his calls if his phone was in an inaccessible place when he was driving.

Sam stood and paced the room absently worrying his hair with his hand.

The game played out on the TV screen unwatched.

xxxxx

It was midway through the game when Sam's phone rang. A broad grin split his face in two when Dean's number flashed up on the screen.

"Hey, jerk; where the hell are y…" his words trailed off when a voice interrupted him; a voice which was undeniably not Dean's on account of the fact that it was female.

"Are you Sam?"

Sam nodded, sucking in a deep breath before he realised she couldn't hear a nod; "uh, yeah; I'm Sam."

"Do you know a man called Dean; Dean Wilkes?"

Sam nodded again; "Yeah, I'm his brother. Please tell me; is he in trouble?"

The voice seemed to warm; "Mr Wilkes, I'm Sheriff Catherine Lansdowne, and I'm calling you because you were the first name on your brother's cellphone contact list."

Sam held his breath; "what's wrong?"

"I can't tell you any more over the phone except that there has been a serious accident. Your brother is being transferred to the Pine Acres City hospital and I think you will want to get yourself over there straight away."

"Is he okay?" Sam croaked.

"He's on his way to the hospital Sam," she explained sympathetically but evasively, "he's in the best possible hands."

xxxxx

It was less than an hour before a cab pulled up outside the hospital; the door open and Sam's feet already hitting the ground before it had even screeched to a halt.

Tossing an uncalculated handful of bills through the driver's window, he dashed through the automatic doors before him, accosting the first uniformed figure he could find.

"My name's Sam," he babbled, panting for breath in his nervous exhaustion; "Sam Wi-Wilkes; my brother has been brought in, there was an accident."

The bemused nurse did her best to settle the agitated giant in front of her.

"What's your brother's name Sir?"

"Dean Wilkes," he replied, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.

She took him gently but firmly by the elbow and led him over to the seating area beside reception.

"Why don't you take a seat Mr Wilkes? I'll go and see what I can find out about Dean."

Sam nodded mutely, and dropped obediently into one of the chairs, watching as the nurse turned and marched urgently into the distance, disappearing behind a pair of swinging doors.

After what seemed like an age, Sam looked up from his lap to see a silver-haired figure, prematurely silver-haired by the look of his youthful face, striding towards him, his white coat billowing along behind him like a pantomime villain's cloak.

Looking up, Sam tried to read the man's expression. Was that the face of a man who was about to impart very bad news? Sam wasn't sure; but he certainly didn't look like he was about to invite Sam to a birthday party.

"Sam?" the man asked amiably, spooking slightly as Sam leapt to his feet to tower over him.

"Yeah," Sam nodded; "is Dean okay? Is he alive?"

The Doctor introduced himself as Doctor Wilson and gestured for them both to sit, nodding imperceptively.

"Yes, he's alive."

Sam suppressed a sob of relief; pulling in a deep shaky breath to try to compose himself; "so, what happened?"

"As we understand it, your brother's car skidded off the road and hit a tree," Wilson began; "the police don't know how it happened, but they believe he may have been travelling at some speed."

Sam thought about how Dean would have been rushing to get back for the game and cringed.

"A passing motorist saw the tail-lights flickering on the verge, and guessing it was a crash, called the police who then called us."

"Can I see him?" Sam asked, barely taking in the news.

"I'm afraid not, he's being prepared for surgery," Wilson replied apologetically.

The brief respite of relief that Sam had enjoyed vanished instantly; "surgery? What for?"

Wilson took a deep breath; "your brother was quite severely injured when the paramedics arrived," he explained patiently, "he had sustained a head wound and was unconscious when he was first attended. He regained consciousness in the ambulance, but we have now placed him under sedation to manage his pain."

Wilson continued; "the checks carried out at the accident site suggested the wound was relatively superficial, but that he had suffered a concussion."

Sam nodded; concussion, okay, nothing new there.

"He has also sustained a hairline fracture to his sternum," he continued; "a very common trauma in car crashes caused when the driver's chest collides with the steering column."

Sam nodded, hopeful that nothing sounded too appalling so far, but cautious because he could feel a very big 'but' heading towards him.

"But," Wilson hesitated as Sam's shoulders visibly sagged; "our main concern is his leg."

"Leg?"

"Yes, the impact crumpled the car's front end, forcing the engine block back into the driver's space. Dean's left leg was crushed in the wreckage."

Giving a shallow nod, Sam felt his hands start to shake.

"Dean's ankle and both lower left leg bones are broken," Wilson hesitated, correcting himself; "I think it would be fair to say 'shattered'."

Sam swallowed back a rising nausea; "is that what they're going to operate on?"

Wilson nodded; "yes," we've taken a series of X-rays, and although they don't tell us the whole story, they tell us enough for us to think that we've got a decent chance of fixing it."

"Decent?" Sam replied nervously.

"Yes," Wilson nodded; "but what the X-rays don't show us is the damage to the soft tissues." He stopped for a moment to check that Sam was holding up; the giant man looked like a frightened nine-year-old; "You see, the problem with crush injuries is that the longer the limb remains crushed, the more time it's not getting any blood circulating to it," he began, choosing his words carefully.

"If this goes on too long, the tissue starts to die, and this releases toxins into the bloodstream which endangers the life of the casualty."

"So …" Sam tried to finish the question even though he had a hideously queasy feeling he knew what the answer would be; "what happens then?"

"The only way to preserve his life would be to amputate the limb."

The words hit Sam like a punch in the gut, and he doubled over with a gasp; when he did manage to straighten up again, the good Doctor saw that every trace of colour had drained out of the Younger Winchester's face.

Sam shook his head helplessly; "cut his leg off?" He choked, barely able to form the words.

Wilson placed a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder; "we won't know until we take a proper look at the damage," he explained calmly; "as I said, that is a worst case scenario, but nevertheless it is a scenario you have to be aware of, because should it become a factor in Dean's treatment, we will seek your authority as Dean's next of kin to carry out the amputation given that he is currently unable to give that authority himself." He smiled reassuringly; "the best case scenario is that we can repair his leg, and that in time, he heals well enough to go back to living a normal life."

Sam snorted sourly, when could their life ever be described as normal?

"If it's good," Sam stammered, his racing mind trying to think of the right question to ask; "How long would it be before Dean would be healed enough to go back to doing normal stuff?"

Wilson pondered the question, "difficult to say," he explained; "it would depend on how much work we have to do, your brother's state of fitness and his ability to heal,and the effectiveness of physiotherapy; but with an injury this devastating, it will be a few months before he can bear any weight on the leg and begin physiotherapy, then in terms of a full recovery, it certainly wouldn't be less than a year; possibly even nearer two."

Sam's mouth dropped open. Two years? And this was the BEST case scenario.

"He only went to get the candy." Sam whispered despairingly to the Doctor as if that would have any bearing on the outcome.

xxxxx

And thus it was that Sam found himself six hours later sitting alone staring at puke-inducing gan-green walls and an equally puke-inducing perfect family staring out of the revoltingly patronising poster, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that the brothers' lives had been turned upside down in the space of a moment.

Feeling utterly powerless, he waited for Bobby and he waited for news.

It was the only thing he could do.

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Jerking awake, Sam let out a comically loud snort as he felt a gentle hand squeeze his shoulder.

"Mr Wilkes?"

"Wha ... uh, yeah. S'me ..."

He looked up, blinking a weary haze out of his eyes to see a blonde, sweetly cheerful young nurse standing over him.

"Your brother is out of surgery, he's had a couple of hours in recovery and now he's been moved to an ICU room; I can take you to see him now if you want," she offered kindly.

"Oh yes please," Sam gasped; "thank you."

Standing shakily from the uncomfortable neck-breaking position he had slipped into during his nap, he stretched the kinks out of his back and glanced at his watch. He shuddered as he saw it was over eight hours since the terrible call that exploded the Winchesters' world.

Blinking as his sleep-muzzed wits gradually drifted back into some degree of clarity, the doctor's words rang ominously in his mind and a bolt of icy fear drove it's way through his chest.

"His leg ..." he blurted, almost scared to ask the question.

The young nurse turned with a kindly smile; "Doctor Wilson will be along soon and he'll explain everything, Mr Wilkes."

Sam meekly followed his young guide through the hospital seemingly for miles, his long legs tripping over themselves as he fought not to overtake the woman and go striding off ahead of her in his eagerness to find Dean.

As they reached the room she stopped without warning and turned; shimmying to the side as Sam almost barrelled into her.

"A couple of things you need to know," she announced quietly; "he's under heavy sedation to help with pain management so he's barely conscious."

Sam nodded silently; wide eyed with anticipation as he glanced over her shoulder, desperate to see into the room.

"Don't expect too much from him," she smiled gently, patting Sam's forearm; "he might not realise you're there – it's nothing to worry about."

"Sam nodded again; his heart pounding like a steam hammer in his chest.

xxxxx

As the young woman quietly opened the door and gestured him through, he tentatively stepped into the dimly lit room, catching his first sight of Dean half-laying, half-sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows in the bed.

His eyes automatically strayed to Dean's left leg. Tightly splinted, it was swathed in layer upon layer of fresh white gauze dressing, surrounded by foam padding and slung up in a hoist which stood beside the bed.

But above all, it was all still there.

Sam felt his stomach lurch, his legs buckling as he let out a sob of relief.

He allowed his eyes to scan the rest of the broken figure in the bed.

Dean 's hair spiked haphazardly over a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead; wide enough to obscure his eyebrows, it threw his closed eyes, already sunken through dehydration and trauma, into darker shadow.

An oxygen mask obscured a large part of Dean's face, but even through the clear perspex, Sam could see that his complexion, notwithstanding a dark and swollen bruise across his cheekbone, was as pallid as a living death.

Glancing down, Sam saw twin drip tubes snaking from the tall stand beside the bed to a canula in the back of Dean's bandaged hand, which rested limply over the thick white sheets folded across his waist.

Watching the shallow rise and fall of Dean's chest beneath the crisp contours of a pale green hospital gown which appeared at least three sizes too big, Sam felt a hypnotic calm descend.

This, at last, was where he needed to be.

xxxxx

"I'll leave you with Dean," the nurse smiled prettily, "if you need anything just call."

Sam turned without taking his eyes from his sleeping brother, "thank you;" he muttered, not even hearing the door click closed.

Taking extreme care not to jostle the hoist and the drip stand, Sam eased into the chair beside the bed, and settled down, reaching across the mound of pillows to softly cup Dean's shoulder.

"Hey jerk," he murmured softly; His heart sinking as there was no response to his touch, even though he had been warned to expect nothing.

Dean's dark lashes remained still, his eyes steadfastly closed.

Sam cleared his throat, trying to keep a comforting levity in his voice; "I always said too much candy would be bad for you."

His hand remained, gently kneading the unmoving shoulder beneath the gown's starchy cotton.

"Everything's gonna be alright now;" he whispered as much for his own reassurance as for Dean's. "They've fixed the mess you made of your leg and you can be a grumpy dick an' drive me and Bobby insane while it's getting better."

His eyes widened as Dean's chest swelled around an unusually deep breath, his body tensing in pain as he did so.

"Dean?"

Sam momentarily held his own breath in anticipation, relaxing when the previous pattern of quiet, shallow breaths resumed.

xxxxx

As a collection of plastic cups half-filled with cold vending machine coffee built up on the nightstand, Sam's watch registered that he had been sitting with his brother for three hours, watching him sleep; watching him heal.

Bobby would be arriving soon; 'about an hour away' his last text had said - about two hours ago. Yeah, way to go Bobby!

During his long vigil, a brief visit from Doctor Wilson had confirmed the fact that the surgical team had indeed made an attempt at repairing the damage to Dean's leg. All the signs seemed to be pointing to it being a successful attempt.

Sam's face was alight with joy; that was until Doctor Wilson had led him outside and, with the best intentions in the world, showed him the X-rays.

The first plate that Doctor Wilson gleefully shoved under Sam's nose showed a jumbled mess of bone fragments that was barely recognisable as a human leg; Sam swayed queasily, feeling himself come within a moment of losing his lunch.

Composing himself, he let out a sigh of relief when Wilson put the plate down, only to feel his stomach flip flop spectacularly at the sight of the second plate which showed Dean's leg rearranged into its former glory and held together with a complex arrangement of bolts and screws that looked for all the world like a child's first attempt at building a model of the Eiffel Tower out of Meccano.

Even the good doctor had seemed concerned at that point because he had urgently offered the younger Winchester a seat and a glass of water.

Doctor Wilson had followed up the X-ray show with the twin bombshells that chest injuries can lead to pneumonia if breathing is not managed properly and that the risk of infection in the war zone that was Dean's leg was astronomically high.

Following his encounter with the good doctor, Sam had wandered back into the room, plopping downweakly beside his peacefully sleeping brother feeling like he'd been in his own car smash.

Holy crap … Doctors were supposed to reassure people: weren't they?

He leaned forward resting his arms on his knees and knuckled desperately tired eyes, fighting back a massive yawn.

xxxxx

Opening his eyes, Sam blinked wetly, arching back into a joint-poppingly satisfying stretch. He realised he had dozed off, and mentally kicked himself for doing so.

Glancing across at the bed, his heart lurched when he realised he wasn't the only one who had opened his eyes.

Breaking into a broad grin, he leaned across the bed and gently kneaded Dean's shoulder.

"Hey dude, over here …"

Dean blinked heavy eyes and turned his head stiffly toward the sound of Sam's voice, looking but not seeing.

Unfocussed eyes, glassy with medication, stared blankly from under the thick head bandage at the point where Sam sat delirious with relief at seeing his brother awake.

Blinking again, Dean yawned; a long exhale fogging the inside of the oxygen mask. He leaned into Sam's touch; soothed by it, but not quite recognising it's source.

He licked dry lips and weakly opened his mouth as if to speak.

"Dude?" Sam prompted gently.

"S'Bambi ..." a muffled whisper, as Dean's eyes flickered closed once again and he burrowed back down into a restful slumber.

Sam stood beside the bed, scratching his head, perplexed.

"Freakin' Bambi? … what the hell?"

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

The hospital had fallen quiet as the small hours descended and Dean was sleeping soundly when the door opened and a young nurse's head peeked through.

"Mr Wilkes?" she prompted softly; "I have your - um - uncle with me."

Sam stood and smiled; "oh yeah, please can he come in?"

She beckoned Bobby through into the dimly lit room with a smile, softly closing the door behind him.

"Hey Sam," the older man greeted Sam warmly, his concerned and undeniably tired eyes scanning the bed, and the drowsing figure in it.

"Sorry it took me longer than I said;" he turned back to Sam; "been workin' with a hunter friend who's based near here," he explained quietly; "I figured we'd better get the Impala away from the local law before they discover the arsenal in her trunk."

Sam's hand worked it's way up to his mouth and stifled a sharp intake of breath; "crap, Bobby, I never even thought of that."

Bobby smiled, patting the younger man on the back; "don't worry about it son. You need to concern yourself with him, let me worry about the details."

He stepped round the bed; taking a seat beside it, facing Sam.

"My buddy's taken her and she's safely squirreled away at his yard now," he hesitated as he stared at Dean's leg; "when the time's right, I'll bring her back to my place and get to work on her. I'll have her up and running again ready for when he can drive her again."

Sam smiled; "yeah, he'd like that, thanks Bobby."

Bobby fell silent as he took in his first long look at Dean's sleeping form, his face visibly paling.

Over the next hour, Sam told him everything.

xxxxx

The mid-morning sun was filtering through the window and Sam and Bobby were on their fourth coffee when a quiet groan heralded Dean's awakening.

Putting his coffee down on the nightstand, Sam leaned over so that the first thing Dean would see upon opening his eyes was his brother's face.

"Hey dude;" he greeted Dean quietly.

Dean blinked absently and glanced to one side of the room then the other.

"Where 'm'I?"

An early morning visit from a doctor had resulted in the removal of the oxygen mask, and hearing the sound of Dean's voice without the obstruction of the mask was like music; especially when he wasn't blathering about fictitious cartoon characters.

"You're in the hospital bro'," Sam replied softly; "you had an accident; mashed your leg up real bad."

Dean turned away from Sam to look at Bobby, blinking absently. A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

Bobby returned the smile; "hey, Hoppy," he teased; "damn, it's good to see ya awake and all in one piece; it was touch an' go for a bit, ya reckless idjit."

Dean tried to shuffle up against the pillows and grimaced; Sam reached across to stop him.

"Take it easy man, you've got some broken bits; you need to rest up."

Pouring a glass of water, Sam passed it to Dean who took it shakily and took a long sip.

"Feel li' crap," he announced hoarsely.

Sam smiled and squeezed Dean's shoulder in reassurance; he didn't like to tell him he looked like it too.

xxxxx

The rest of the morning passed quietly.

Bobby had headed out to tie up loose ends in respect of the Impala and Sam had spent most of the brothers' time alone gently coaxing Dean to remember what had happened to him, mainly so the police wouldn't have to get too involved. He questioned gently and without pressure, leaving Dean to drift off into short naps when the need arose.

The anaesthetic was, by degrees, leaving his system and, as a result, he was more lucid; however, the industrial strength antibiotics and pain relief still raging round his body was keeping him drowsy, softening the edges of his speech and making him sound like an endearingly comical drunk.

Eventually, however, Sam's patience paid dividends and all the pieces fell seamlessly into place.

"So you got totalled by a deer?"

"Yeah; damn thing ran righ' out'n fron' o' the 'pala."

"Did you hit it?"

Dean hesitated in thought before shaking his head, a frown forming across his bruised face.

"No; friggin' ran in the forest, an' cos' I tried to save it's frigg'n life, I en' up 'n here!"

"You swerved to avoid it?" Sam prompted gently.

A nod.

"Sono'bish is prob'ly wand'rin' abou' in the sunshine, eatin' an' bangin' all his does an' 'joyin' 'self, an' I'm stuck here all broke up 'n can' go anywhere - can' even take a piss without tubes stuck in places don' wanna think about'.

Sam didn't want to think about them either.

"An' my baby's all smashed up," he added miserably.

"We'll get you and baby fixed up bro'," Sam continued his reassuring mantra; "just gotta make sure you take it easy and don't try to rush things, because this is real bad, dude."

"Yeah," Dean's frown deepened along with his sulky sense of injustice; "'n when I can walk 'gain, 'm gonn' go 'n find Bambi's stupid hairy ass, an' have me a venison barbecue. Then 'm gonn' mount it's freakin' antlers on the 'pala's grille."

Sam relished the brief flash of spirit; a glimpse of the old Dean and his smart mouth, even though he knew that Dean would fold quicker than a bad poker hand when confronted with the reality of slaughtering something big-eyed and fluffy.

"You might have trouble finding the very same one," Sam suggested calmly; "unless it's got any distinguishing tattoos or something."

Dean shrugged, and winced, pressing a palm across his chest; "then I'll fin' one that looks jus' like it."

Sam grinned, looking up across at Bobby whe re-entered the room just as Dean drifted off to sleep again, looking utterly at peace.

"you do that bro'." Sam whispered, "when you're better we'll go off and find Bambi so you can kick his ass."

xxxxx

Doctor Wilson's visit later in the day did an awesome job of totally obliterating Dean's positive mood.

The explanation of Dean's injuries and the same X-ray show that Sam had been subjected to left Dean the same horrible shade of pale billious green as his gown, and when the good doctor casually imparted the risk of complications that Dean still faced together with the bombshell that the brothers could be looking at as long as two years for a full recovery, what little colour there was in Dean's face, albeit green, drained in a fit of wide-eyed apoplexy.

"Two years …"

It became a stunned, despairing mantra; the only two words that Dean suddenly seemed capable of saying.

"Two years …"

His mood wasn't improved by the time lunch was served and a humourless middle-aged nurse wordlessly placed a bowl of unidentifiable grey sludge in front of him.

He looked up at her, "whasis?"

"Vegetable risotto," she replied economically. "Eat it, it's good for you."

After a token effort at rearranging Dean's bedclothes, she turned smartly, closing the door behind her with neither word or glance, leaving the three men making rude gestures towards the door.

Nose wrinkling in disgust, Dean stared timidly at the lumpy mass as if it might jump up and bite him. Hospital food, it had to be said, had never featured highly on Dean's list of life's little pleasures.

He slumped in the bed, and began to labour miserably through the paltry offering spurred on only by Bobby's promise to go and get him some chocolate from the vending machine if he ate it all.

"Wanna get out," Dean sighed wearily, groaning as his abused chest protested the deep breath.

"Soon bro, when the docs are happy there's no infection or bad stuff like that;" Sam reassured cautiously, watching Dean take another reluctant mouthful; the wrinkle of disgust in danger of becoming a permanent feature across his nose.

"What you've had done is massive dude," he continued; "you've had your leg shattered and bolted back together; you can't rush this, Dean." Sam was almost pleading now; "for once in your life you're gonna have to do exactly what the doctors tell you."

Dean looked down into the bowl.

"They ought to ha' glued it together wi' this; I'd be up an' abou' within a week."

Sam and Bobby both chuckled, and for the first time that morning, Dean's face lifted into a reluctant smile along with them.

xxxxx

After the ordeal with the risotto from outer space, Bobby was as good as his word, and sated by two Hershey bars Dean had drifted off again. Along with the candy, Bobby had also turned up with more coffee; as if Sam wasn't wired enough already.

With Bobby projecting a fiercely protective presence at Dean's bedside; Sam decided it was safe to take a walk down to the hospital shop to stretch stiff legs, and to try to work off some of the twenty thousand litres of caffeine he had ingested over the last couple of days.

His mind whirled.

It was less than forty eight hours into the long road ahead of them and already Dean was struggling to cope with the enforced inactivity.

Sam knew that a bored, restless and frustrated Dean was a dangerously destructive force.

Nations had gone to war over less.

Standing outside the shop, Sam pondered how he was going to deal with the oncoming storm over such a prolonged period of time?

This would be Dean at his immobile, unco-operative, frustrated best; mood swings and all, and Sam knew from past experience that the best way to handle this kind of Dean was to know what triggered the bad moods so that they could, where possible, be prevented.

There would be appointments to remember; hospital appointments, doctors appointments, physiotherapists appointments ... not to mention the exercises Dean would need to remember to do to strengthen the leg.

Sam felt his heart start to race in panic; of course, it could just be the caffeine.

How the hell would he cope for so long without murdering Dean or going completely loco himself?

Of course if it all went bad and Dean's leg got infected … Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Not gonna happen; can't happen. Not to someone like Dean.

He composed himself steadily, then opened his eyes.

It was then that he saw it. On the shelf between a bank of magazines and a rack of get-well cards; largely ignored if the layer of dust along it's top edge was anything to go by.

A notebook.

He felt drawn towards it. Small enough to be discreetly slipped into a jacket pocket, it was still substantial enough to be able to accommodate plenty of content.

Sporting a rigid, pale blue cover finished with faintly embossed edges, it's pages were a reassuringly smooth vellum.

The neatly ruled lines across it's creamy pages just invited paragraph after paragraph of facts and figures, reminders, theories and reassuringly useful information.

Sam looked at the little book. He'd always liked pale blue.

He smiled. That lonely little book had given him the best idea ever.

He would keep a journal of Dean's recovery.

Everything he needed to know, everything he needed to remember would go into those nice, crisp cream pages.

He tucked the book under his arm and took it to the cashier.

xxxxx

Sam stepped back into the room in to see that Dean wasn't the only one who had nodded off. Bobby sat in the chair, arms folded across his chest, snoring softly into his collar.

Settling back down into his chair, Sam placed his bag of purchases on the floor beside him and rummaged around among a bundle of candy bars - incentives to coax Dean to choke down the swill that masqueraded as food in this place - and car magazines; he pulled out the book.

Running his palm lovingly over it's blue cover, he removed the dust and produced a smart black pen he had bought specifically for the purpose of writing his journal.

Such a nice little book deserved a nice pen to write in it.

This book would be his rock; his retreat. It would be where he could celebrate little victories, where he could air his concerns and where he could vent his frustration.

It would accompany him throughout the peaks and troughs of Dean's recovery and it's work would only end when Dean was well enough to carry out his stated mission.

Sam took up his pen and wrote their mission in bold block capitals on the book's cover.

'Finding Bambi'.

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

xxxxx

Dear journal

It's been three days and I'm starting to feel cautiously optimistic.

The doctors are really pleased with Dean.

Well, more specifically, they're pleased with his leg. I think the rest of him is pissing them off royally.

xxxxx

Sam's heart went out to his bedridden brother. Despite Dean's frequent and unconvincing protestations that he was fine, Sam knew otherwise.

He knew from a sly wince here or a stifled groan there that, despite the pain relief coursing around his system, Dean was still hurting. He knew his brother was frustrated, angry and miserable from being so utterly helpless and so dependent on those around him.

But he knew that above all, Dean was terrified; scared witless of the thought of being out of action for months on end. He was frightened beyond words about their future. What if it took longer than the doctors said? What if he never made a full recovery?

Sam didn't see it very often, but he knew from bitter experience that a scared Dean was … well … very, very scary.

xxxxx

Despite everything, however, Dean was doing well. With each passing day, he grew more desperate to escape 'this gulag' as he called what Sam had to agree was probably the worst hospital either of them had ever had the misfortune to visit.

His concussion had passed and given that his leg was immobilised, the pain relief was gradually being reduced. As a result, each day he was becoming more and more alert.

The unlovely outcome of this was that each day he was also getting more and more antsy and, worse still, growing more and more capable of articulating how much he hated being where he was.

Sam's deep reserves of patience were being tested to their limits.

xxxxx

"Quit feeling me up, dude;" Dean irritably swatted away the hand that Sam pressed against his forehead.

"Sorry man, I just wanted to get an idea of your temperature," Sam replied; "you're lookin' a bit flushed."

"I look flushed 'cause they've cranked the goddamn heating up again," snorted Dean, arranging his face into a sulky scowl.

"Perhaps I ought to call Doctor Wilson back, you know, just to be safe;" Sam speculated, looking between Bobby, who shot Sam his sternest 'keep me out of it' look, and his glaring brother.

"Sam," Dean growled menacingly; "you call that man in here one more time, and I swear I will hurt you."

"Him and his cronies won't leave me alone Sam;" he pleaded; "why they gotta take my friggin' temperature an' take lumps of my friggin' blood all the friggin' time?" He asked angrily. "I broke my leg, surely the diagnosis is clear enough, even to this bunch of halfwits?"

"They've just got to look out for signs of infection," explained Sam calmly, leaning forward to give Dean's hunched shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"I know," Dean's sulky scowl fell into a forlorn pout as he petulantly shrugged Sam's hand away; "you tell me about fifty times a day."

"So why'd you ask then?" scolded Sam.

Huddled in the corner of the room, and making a concerted effort to remain invisible, Bobby silently watched the brothers' verbal jousting with amusement.

"They're pumpin' me so full of antibiotics, I'll be pissin' penicillin for the rest of my life," Dean moaned miserably.

Sam rubbed a hand over his throbbing forehead; where was an aspirin when you needed it?

xxxxx

Dean had given up sighing and huffing on the basis that it was just too painful, and simply resorted to wearing a despondent frown, visible in all it's bruised and endearingly indignant glory now his head bandage was gone.

With Dean's incessant snarking washing over him, Sam sat in saintly silence and allowed his mind to wander, remembering to nod sympathetically from time to time as Dean continued a long and animated diatribe of why he should be allowed to leave the hospital. The rant had been going on since this morning when Dean's apology of a breakfast, consisting of runny scrambled egg and a rasher of bacon which struggled to maintain room temperature, had turned up.

So far his arguments, although heartfelt, had convinced neither Sam or Bobby.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Dean's arguments for leaving the hospital are pretty imaginative and varied - and persistant - I'll give him that.

The food sucks (okay, none of us can deny that one).

None of the nurses are pretty – Dean wonders if they put 'must have a face like the back of a freight train' in the recruitment advert. I suspect not; that must contravene some diversity rule or other.

It's against his human rights to be incarcerated in this crap hole against his will.

The lavatorial arrangements … my mind is still trying to blot that part of the discussion out.

The bedspread is the colour of puke and not conducive to a swift recovery.

This is becoming very hard work.

Is it wrong of me to want to shoot him up with the morphine again?

No, scratch that. Can I shoot myself up with the morphine instead?

xxxxx

It wasn't just the hospital that was on the receiving end of Dean's ire.

"That creepy bastard Wilson looks like Draco friggin' Malfoy; hasn't the weirdo ever heard of hair dye?"

Sam shrugged; "some people go grey young. It's not his fault."

Dean snorted dismissively; "I'll turn my back for two minutes and he'll be friggin' hexing me with a cruciate curse."

Sam cocked his head in amused curiosity; "wouldn't have you pegged for a closet Harry Potter fan!"

Dean bristled. Sinking down into his pillows, his eyes darted shiftily from side to side.

"I'm not, I jus' read it in a - um - thing, uh, once."

Bobby stifled a chuckle; "what, like that Harry Potter book we found at the bottom of your duffel?"

"You been rootin through my stuff?" Dean snapped accusingly.

"Yeah," Bobby responded calmly; "we had to to get ya insurance papers and bring ya some nice black t-shirts 'less ya wanted to still be wearing that snot coloured gown they put ya in when ya were first admitted."

"Well, it ain't my book - I foun' it. I was gonna take it to the charity store."

Sam and Bobby exchanged amused glances.

"Sure you were Dean!" Sam grinned.

"Bite me," Dean grunted sourly. Clearly out of convincing arguments, he folded his arms timidly across his chest to indicate the conversation was at an end.

xxxxx

Sam spent a few moments adjusting Dean's bedclothes, pouring him a glass of water, plumping his pillows, and getting called a girlie bitch for his trouble.

All the while Dean stewed moodily before speaking up again. Sam could see that it was becoming harder and harder for him to keep up his campaign. Dean's eyes were becoming glassy with fatigue, his shoulders slumping lower and lower as a heavy weariness slowly claimed him.

"They wouldn't even let me out just for a couple of hours to see my poor baby."

Sam clenched his teeth, glancing across at Bobby who was mirroring his exasperation; "Dean, they can't let you out, you're all slung up in …"

"That fat nurse," Dean interrupted, "the one with the bald patch and the harelip, she even laughed at me when I suggested it."

"Your baby's fine, kid;" Bobby tried his best to ease Dean's troubled mind, "she's tucked away safe and cosy, and as soon as you're settled at my place, I can bring her back and get to work on her, have her good as new in no time."

"She's all smashed up," Dean moaned quietly, his face a study of abject sadness, "an' I ain't there takin' care of her…"

Sam silently counted to ten, knowing that no amount of reassurance was going to satisfy Dean and so decided that a subject change was in order.

"This'll teach us to take witch's curses more seriously I guess!"

Dean turned to his brother, wincing as the movement pulled on his desperately sore chest; "s'nothin to do with that skank, she was ramblin' on some crap about a friend hurtin …"

The penny dropped very slowly.

"The Impala … a friend … my baby? … That bitch put a curse on my baby?"

Sam shrugged, "well you and your baby by the look of it."

Dean's eyes narrowed, glimmering dangerously. "I'll kill her;" he snarled. "No-one, I mean no-one, 'specially some skeevy witch bitch, hurts my baby. I'm gonna hunt her down."

"I think you'll find you already did that," replied Sam; "you blew her head off, remember?"

"Then I'll friggin' find a way to bring her back to life jus' so I can have the pleasure of killin' her all over again," Dean snapped.

"Is that before or after you hunt Bambi down?" asked Sam casually.

"Don't care," Dean growled; "both their freakin' asses are history."

xxxxx

Around half an hour passed and Dean, fighting the pull of sleep, had fallen unusually silent. He managed to avail himself of some cherry pie that Bobby smuggled back from the hospital café and a coffee.

A quiet Dean was a thinking Dean and Sam knew from bitter experience that a thinking Dean was a bad, bad thing.

Only moments later, Sam's worst fears were realised.

"So when d'y think I can come out?"

Sam shook his head; "when Doc Wilson says so, I guess."

"But he said I'm doin' okay right?"

"Well yeah, so far," Sam agreed cautiously, "but that still doesn't mean you can come out right away."

"Well, when then?"

"I don't know bro'," Sam sighed deeply; "when they're satisfied with your progress."

Dean fell into a sullen silence for a moment, a look of deep concentration settling into his hooded eyes.

"So when will that be?"

"Oh for the love of ... I don't know Dean;" snapped Sam, his fragile veneer of patience crumbling rapidly, "when Doctor Wilson says it is".

He instantly regretted his sharp tone when Dean's face fell into a soft pout of admonished hurt.

"I'm sure it ain't healthy, bein' stuck in here with all these sick and injured people," Dean whispered fretfully; "the chow's Like poison and all the freakin' x-rays, dude; my leg, my chest; I'm gonna glow in the goddamned dark soon."

"Well that's okay," Bobby piped up; "ya can read your Harry Potter book at night then."

Dean glared darkly; "kiss it," he snorted ingraciously.

He continued, warming to his theme, his volume rising; "I'm sure I'm gonna have to start movin' around soon otherwise I'm gonna start putting on weight."

Sam grinned wickedly, "You could always eat less."

Dean stared wide-eyed at his smiling brother as if Sam had just won the golden stupid award for the most stupid comment in the history of stupidity. He eventually decided to treat Sam's comment with the contempt it deserved and ignore it.

"An' puttin' on weight's bad for your health," he stated.

Sam nodded, "it sure is, dude."

"So all things considered," Dean stated, "he must be thinking about letting me go out soon."

"I'm sure he is bro';" Sam muttered weakly, little by little losing the will to live.

There was a short - too short - silence.

"So when can I come out then?"

xxxxx

Dear journal

JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK JERK 

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

xxxxx

Dear journal

It's been ten days now

I spoke to Doctor Wilson earlier this morning while Dean was sleeping.

He's such a nice man. Although, come to think of it, I don't remember him twitching like that when I first met him.

He told me that Dean's progress is better than they could have ever hoped and so they're going to let him go home.

Then he told me some other stuff.

I'll tell Dean as soon as he wakes up.

But, as always with our life, nothing's ever simple.

This may be my last journal entry because I might be dead by this afternoon.

xxxxx

"Hey Dean."

Sam's smiling face was the first thing Dean's sleep-blurred eyes latched onto as they slowly opened and drifted into focus.

"Good afternoon Dozy," Sam smiled, "how you feelin' bro'?"

Dean yawned timidly, knuckling tired eyes and flinching as he stretched his sore chest.

"M'good," he lied, licking dry lips.

Sam handed him a carton of juice.

"M'hungry Sammy …" he mumbled around the straw between his lips; as if on cue, his stomach let loose a menacing rumble.

Sam patted his shoulder; "they'll be bringing round lunch soon bro'."

Dean swallowed his juice and squirmed back up against his pillows, grimacing as his fractured sternum made it's presence felt once again.

"Deep joy," Dean groaned; "I wonder what delights they've got in store for me today," he grunted sourly; "something pathetically small, damp and lukewarm no doubt."

Sam smiled sadly in sympathy.

"Bobby said he'll get you some apple pie while he's out."

Glancing to his left, Dean realised the older man was absent; "where's he gone?" he asked.

Sam busied himself plumping pillows and tidying Dean's nightstand as he responded evasively; "he's gone out to sort a few, uh, things out."

Dean eyed him suspiciously; "such as?"

"Oh just some, you know; stuff…" Sam replied breezily.

"Hey," he piped up, anxious to change the subject before Dean pressed too hard; "guess what? Doc Wilson says you can leave tomorrow."

Dean's eyes widened. "leave?"

"Yeah," Sam grinned; "tomorrow."

A broad smile lit up Dean's face for the first time since the accident; it warmed Sam's soul like a brilliant sunrise illuminating the gloomy room.

"We're going back to Bobby's place for a while," Sam continued cheerfully; "Bobby says you can rest up there and take it easy for as long as you need, and you'll be close to Sioux Falls Hospital for your fracture clinic and physiotherapy appointments."

The smile faded slightly.

"Well, we don't …"

"Yes we do," replied Sam sharply, his deep frown indicating the response was non-negotiable.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, and closed his eyes briefly; "oh well, at least the physiotherapist might be hot," he muttered into his chest.

"You never know," Sam grinned, enjoying this small glimpse of the old Dean; "anyway, so Bobby's out organising the, um ..." Sam hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper, "the wheelchair, and, uh, tomorrow, you'll …"

"Wheelchair?" Dean interrupted, his voice emotionless.

Sam squirmed; "uh yeah, wheelchair," he confirmed reluctantly.

Dean shook his head; "oh no, I ain't parkin' my ass in no wheelchair; crutches will do me fine, thanks."

Sam took a deep breath; he'd been dreading this exchange since his conversation with Wilson this morning.

"Well, here's the thing see," he chose his words carefully; "Doctor Wilson says that because of your chest injury, the pressure using crutches would put on your fracture would be excutiatingly painful, and could actually impede the healing of the …"

Sam trailed off forlornly under the weight of Dean's silent fury

"It ain't happenin'."

Sam continued manfully; "It would only be for a few weeks, until your chest heals – three or four at the most, and it wouldn't cost us any money 'cause the hospital works with several organisations and charities that would loan us a wheel …"

Dean's glare darkened, reaching defcon one proportions.

"I. Am. Not. Sitting. In. No. Friggin'. Wheelchair." Dean enunciated each word clearly as if Sam was in anyway unclear as to his meaning.

Taking a deep breath, Sam fought to keep his cool. He scraped his hand across his fringe.

"Dean, Doctor Wilson said …"

"Doctor friggin' Wilson can shove it up his ass," Dean yelled breathlessly, letting out a hoarse yelp as the sharp intake of breath tugged on his hurting chest; "the man can't even dye his hair a sensible colour."

"Dean, it's only gonna be for a few weeks and …"

"It's not even gonna be for a few minutes 'cause I ain't doin' it!"

Sam wilted miserably; how can anyone form a rational argument against such irrational bull-headedness.

xxxxx

Bowing his head, Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. Against his better judgement it was time to try another tack.

If he couldn't reason with Dean, he would need to go on the offensive.

"Okay, fine;" he replied bluntly, "if you won't go in a wheelchair, then we can't move you, so you'll just have to stay in here until your chest heals. Should only be about three or four weeks."

Dean's eyes widened fearfully.

"Don't wanna stay in this crap hole," he gasped; "I'm goin' stir-crazy Sammy; the food sucks, Doctor Wilson creeps me out, the nurses are miserable old harpies who hate my guts and it smells freakin' disgusting."

The look of abject misery in Dean's frightened eyes all but broke Sam's heart, but he knew he had to stick to his guns; 'tough love,' he kept reminding himself.

"Well, you don't want to be in a wheelchair, and you don't want to stay in hospital," he shrugged nonchalently; "looks like you're just going to pick whichever option you hate the least."

Dean shrunk back into the mound of pillows behind him, biting back welling tears of angry frustration. He turned his face away from Sam as he struggled to compose himself.

xxxxx

Dear Journal

Tough love … who is it supposed to be tough on?

xxxxx

Sam leaned forward and gently rubbed Dean's back, his heart sank as Dean flinched at his touch.

"Hey, man," he coaxed softly; "it'll only be for a couple of weeks; I know the way you heal Dean."

Dean's jaw clenched as he bit back a gulping sob of temper.

"It won't be long before you're crashing around on crutches, wrecking Bobby's place."

"I-I could try the crutches," Dean ground out, his voice as small as a whisper, still unable to look Sam in the eye.

Sam kneaded Dean's nape, shaking his head.

"No Dean;" he stated, as calmly as he could manage; "the Doc says it'll be bad for you, and that's good enough for me."

He watched as Dean slyly rubbed the heel of his hand along a wet cheek.

"The longer your chest takes to heal, the longer your breathing will be compromised, and the longer that goes on, the more likely it is that you could end up with pneumonia," Sam hesitated; "and I'll be damned if I let that happen."

And Dean knew there and then the exchange was at an end.

He silently composed himself.

"Bitch," he muttered quietly, wiping his eyes.

Sam grinned; "jerk," he teased.

Finally Dean looked up and Sam's heart lurched when he saw Dean's wet, reddened eyes looking up at him.

"I know it sucks," he sympathised, "but it won't be long, I promise."

Dean took a deep breath in through his nose, pressing a flat palm against his chest.

"No Charles Xavier Jokes," grumbled Dean, finishing off with a despondent sniffle.

"Promise," smiled Sam, giving Dean's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

xxxxx

Both men turned as the door opened, and Bobby strolled through brandishing a greasy paper bag with 'Papa's Pie Palace' printed all over it.

Immediately noticing the defeated slump of the elder Winchester's shoulders, his wet eyes and general air of forlorn despair, he stopped in his tracks.

"So you told him then?"

xxxxx

Dear journal

Well, it was a trial, but it looks like I've managed to convince Dean to use the wheelchair. 

It's for his own benefit. Cruel to be kind and all that.

It's what Malf ... uh, Wilson said will be the best thing for him, and it makes sense that crutches will be painful to use given his chest injury, and the possible complications that I can't even bring myself to think about.

Dean's welfare is and will always be the most important thing to me.

So why do I hate myself so much?

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

xxxxx

Dear journal

Big day today.

Dean finally got released from his 'gulag'. We get to take him home and I should be jumping for joy.

But to see Dean in a wheelchair, even though I know it's only for a few weeks, shook me to the core. It's so very, very wrong.

To see something, someone, so strong, so active and free-spirited confined and immobile is heartbreaking. Like putting an eagle in a cage; it should never – ever - be allowed to happen.

xxxxx

Smeared glass doors slid open and the Winchesters plus one emerged from the hospital foyer into a world that looked as blank and cheerless as Dean's broken demeanour.

His eyes had not left his lap from the moment Sam had helped him off his bed into the wheelchair.

The defeated slump of his shoulders was all the evidence Sam needed to know that Dean was trying with all his might to be invisible; so far removed from his usual brash, noisy self that it was almost alien.

His shame at being wheelchair-bound was almost palpable; both Sam and Bobby could clearly see a fierce blush burning across his cheeks and it tore them apart.

Carefully pushing the chair across the parking lot, Sam couldn't resist giving his brother's shoulder a quick rub in a subtle display of unity and understanding.

"Feels good to be out in the fresh air, huh, dude?"

Dean nodded softly; "where's the car?" he murmured into his chest.

xxxxx

Bobby's truck pulled up outside his house after an eight hour drive including one stop for fuel and another for take-out coffee and donuts which managed to engender a rare and all-too-brief display of enthusiasm in Dean.

Perversely, the infusion of caffeine and sugar somehow seemed to have a soporific effect on the elder Winchester and he slept soundly the remainder of the journey home.

Sam thought back to the reassuring words of Doctor Wilson – heck, would he ever be able to think of that man without imagining him in a Slytherin scarf? Sleeping was quite normal, given the severity of Dean's injuries and the amount of medication he had been subjected to. Sleeping was good; it would promote healing.

Sam sat and smiled silently as Dean slowly subsided against him. Sleeping was good; Sam would see that Dean got to do a lot of it.

xxxxx

"Dude…"

Dean's eyes fluttered open; "hmmmm?"

"We're home," Sam smiled, pointing through the truck window towards the comfortingly familiar ramshackle building beside them.

Dean had spent the trip sitting sideways with his heavily splinted leg stretched along the seat, leaning heavily against Sam's solid frame. Still disorientated by his long nap, he moved to sit up, forgetting his unusual position and gasped as his broken body protested viciously against the sudden movement.

Sam's arm tightened across his chest to steady him.

"Take it easy man, we'll help you out of the truck." He smiled as he felt a soft moan of frustration rattle deep in Dean's chest.

Sam and Bobby held out supporting hands as they helped Dean slide clumsily out of the truck with encouraging words. "C'mon Hoppy," Bobby teased, "there's a cold beer in the refrigerator with your name on it."

Beside the truck, Dean sunk into his other, far less appreciated, wheeled conveyance and Sam pushed him across the yard to the house, the wheelchair rattling noisily over the crumbling asphalt, jostling Dean to a degree that Sam had to stop when Dean let out a stifled groan.

"Sorry bro'," Sam murmured, "I don't think this yard has seen a fresh layer of asphalt since before the declaration of independence."

Dean smiled mirthlessly. "Hate this," he ground out between clenched teeth as Sam manoeuvred him gently over the threshold.

"I know," whispered Sam sympathetically.

xxxxx

Dear journal

So begins the first real day of Dean's recovery, Dean's first full day out of Hogwarts - uh - hospital.

When we got home Bobby and I brought up an old guest bed Bobby had lying around in the basement and we made that up in the living room for Dean.

The springs creak a bit; I should know, I'm sleeping on the couch next to the bed, and I heard every single move Dean made – jeez, can that man fidget!

Another week of sleeping on the couch, and my back will be creaking louder than Dean's bed.

xxxxx

The mid-morning sunlight was filtering hazily through the film of dust on the windows when Dean first opened his eyes. His first awareness, however, was not of what he saw, but the wonderful smell that assaulted his nostrils.

Bacon.

Then he heard an equally wonderful noise.

Sizzling.

Sizzling bacon; Dean's most favourite phrase in the English language.

Before Dean had even had the mental capacity to formulate a coherent word, Sam was striding into the living room with a steaming mug in one hand and a plate of bacon sandwiches in the other.

"Breakfast," he announced brightly, as if Dean hadn't already worked it out for himself.

Dean nodded his thanks and began his daily trial of trying to shuffle into something resembling a sitting position.

He had barely got to the leaning-on-elbows-and-trying-not-to-look-like-he-was-giving-birth stage when suddenly strong, safe hands were pressed flat against his back and his chest supporting him, helping him up, and loading pillows behind him so he could lean against the metal bedstead in comfort.

"Thanks Sammy," Dean muttered without a hint of his usual ill-grace.

Sam handed him the plate, "there you are bro', bacon, hot and sizzly and a little bit crispy with loads of ketchup - just as you like it."

Dean bit into the sandwich and his face fell into a hamster-cheeked smile of bliss.

"You know, for a pain-in-the-ass kid brother, you make a pretty awesome sandwich," Dean mumbled wetly around the wad of chewed wreckage cluttering up his mouth.

Sam beamed, watching Dean as he voraciously consumed the sandwich.

xxxxx

When it came, Dean's announcement came right out of the blue.

"I wanna shower Sammy," there was a hint of desperation in the request; "wanna wash the stink of that place off me."

Sam nodded thoughtfully; "maybe that's a bit ambitious just now, seeing as Bobby's only shower is upstairs," he suggested; "why don't we go in the kitchen - it's nice and warm where I've been cooking, I'll fill the sink and you can freshen up there."

Dean bit his lip, every atom in his body longed to argue, but he knew it was pointless when Sam was in full-on mother-hen mode. Besides, he just didn't have the energy. He felt like the stuffing had been well and truly knocked out of him. It was beyond pathetic.

He had never hated anything as much as he hated his leg right now.

Thinking reluctantly about the logistics of sponge washing himself, Dean's head drooped. He knew Sam was thinking the same thing.

"Will - will you help me?" He murmured glumly, momentarily unable to look Sam in the eye.

"Sure," Sam smiled, "I'll do the bits you can't reach."

Dean scowled; "that's most of 'em."

xxxxx

Sam had decanted Dean in the kitchen, sitting on a chair; his leg, encased in it's rigid plastic immobilising brace, elevated and resting on his despised wheelchair.

He watched through drooping eyes as Sam busily covered the floor around him with towels, filled the sink with comfortably warm water, sloshing his hand around to test the temperature, and rooted around to find a small bowl for Dean to use given that he couldn't reach the sink.

Tossing a facecloth and a bar of Dean's favourite pine scented soap into the bowl, he carried it over to the table next to Dean, stifling a chuckle at Dean's unruly, sleep-ruffled hair which seemed to gave taken on a life of it's own; stray clumps and strands spiking in just about every direction except the ones which Dean would want them to.

Sam was in his element; he just loved any opportunity to help his big brother.

well, almost any ...

xxxxx

Dear journal

It only took me a moment to realise that Dean's going to struggle to reach up and brush his hair, or gel it, for at least the next couple of weeks. 

The thing is Dean without his trademark aerodynamic spike is Dean de-aged by twenty years.

As if being wheelchair-bound isn't humiliating enough for him, could I really be heartless enough to let him face the world looking like a fluff-headed ten-year-old?

I think I'm about to add 'hairdresser' to my ever-growing list of duties.

Oh shit!

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

xxxxx

Dear journal

I'm standing here getting ready to sponge bath my own brother in Bobby's kitchen.

This should be squirm-makingly awkward except that he needs me and it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

I know Dean is too proud to give himself over in such a vulnerable and helpless position to just anyone, and that level of trust is both humbling and overwhelming.

And besides, it will be priceless blackmail material in future when all this is over.

xxxxx

"Where's Bobby?"

Dean's sudden question snapped Sam out of his thoughts.

"What if he needs to get in here?"

Sam shook his head; "nah, he's gone out to fetch the Impala, he'll be gone most of the day."Dean nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the thought of having his baby back home and in good hands.

"C'mon bro," Sam smiled; "let's do this."

Dean gave another nod accompanied by a resigned sigh.

Together, they slowly and carefully worked Dean's T-shirt off over his head with the minimum of discomfort. Sam couldn't help but to glance at the livid bruising across Dean's chest. It was fading to a mottled splash of yellowish grey. An outward sign of the healing Sam hoped was going on inside.

"It's looking a bit better dude," he smiled what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Dean looked down and pulled a hand across the dark blemish nestling in the hollow of his chest.

"Still hurts like a bitch," he grunted with a sharp intake of breath.

The brothers hesitated for a moment, inhaling the fragrance of the pine scented soap as it mingled with the lingering aroma of the bacon Sam had cooked earlier; a strange combination, but not entirely unpleasant, Sam had to admit as he took up a position kneeling at Dean's uninjured leg.

As Dean picked up the facecloth and cautiously began to wipe down his face and chest, Sam lifted his clammy foot into his lap, and gently scrubbed the warm cleansing cloth around the limb. He worked matter-of-factly and without fuss, as if he were washing the Impala, and he knew Dean appreciated him not making a big touchy-feely drama of the whole episode.

It was only when his cloth strayed to within six inches of the leg of Dean's boxers that Dean quietly reminded him of the extent of his responsibilities.

"That part of the world's out of bounds to you, bitch."

Sam nodded with a smile; that suited him just fine.

xxxxx

He watched discreetly as Dean laboured to wash as much of himself as he could manage; across his shoulders, under his arms, even managing to squirm round stiffly to reach the back of his neck.

Then his eyes strayed to Dean's other leg.

Doctor Wilson had told them that because the metalwork reinforced the leg from the inside, the brace could come off occasionally; just for the briefest of moments to wash or to slip a pair of pants on, but was it that important that he washed Dean's other foot?

Had Dean seen his wrecked leg? Sam sure hadn't; he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to.

Eventually his dilemma was resolved when Dean's voice spoke up quietly.

"Do it."

Sam looked up; "you sure dude?"

Dean nodded.

"S'hot an' itchy an' it stinks of freakin' disinfectant; wanna freshen up."

Sam swallowed back a sudden nausea as his eyes scanned the rigid plastic brace which covered Dean's leg from his knee, completely enclosing his foot.

The leg hadn't been plastered like a normal fracture; because surgery had been involved, it was necessary to have access to the incisions in case of problems. Sam thanked heaven and earth there had been none of those sorts of things to worry about.

He glanced once again at Dean, wordlessly seeking his confirmation that he was sure he wanted Sam to do this, and Dean gave the slightest of nods.

It was an ability the brothers shared between them, one that was often commented upon and often envied; the ability to have a complete conversation without saying a word.

Sam took a deep breath, and slowly pulled open the first hefty Velcro strap which held the brace closed.

Then the next.

He undid six in all, and slowly, fearfully, as if he was handling an unexploded bomb, he eased the two halves of the brace apart.

Dean leaned forward slightly, trying to steal a look.

His leg lay there, supported by the wheelchair, wrapped in bandages.

Sam glanced at Dean who nodded again, and he timidly began to unwrap the bandage.

Within a couple of moments Dean's injured leg was laid bare and the full extent of it's damage was there for the brothers to see.

Sam felt the blood drain from his face.

xxxxx

Dear journal

With the crap that I've seen in my life, I really didn't think there was anything I could see any more that would shock me.

I was wrong.

xxxxx

Dean's lower left leg was twice the size of it's twin. Swollen and grotesquely mis-shapen, it was every single colour Sam had ever seen on a human body and a few more besides.

Two angry, ramrod straight incisions, criss-crossed by thick, already dissolving sutures, ran like railroad-tracks either side of his shinbone from knee to ankle, terminating just above the heel of his bloated and blackened foot.

Mingled amongst the livid bruising, they could still see the faint brown stains of the disinfectant that had been used during the surgery and smell it's bitter odour.

Sam raised a shaking hand to his mouth.

"Dean," he whispered; "I don't think I …"

Dean was staring, hypnotised by the sheer horror of the sight unveiled before him until the expression on his face suddenly switched, his wide eyes softening as he looked up at Sam.

For just one short moment it was Sam that needed looking after, and Dean would always do his duty.

"Nothin' to worry 'bout," he stated as casually as he could manage; "Old Draco told us it could take months for all the bruising and swelling and shit to go." Dean gave a reassuring smile in Sam's direction, "He saw that mess two days ago, and still let me out, so it can't be that bad."

Sam nodded, buoyed by Dean's rare display of logic and tried to swallow the nausea which still stirred the pit of his stomach.

"An' besides, when all this is over, I'm gonna have a couple of awesome scars to impress the chicks with."

Sam chuckled nervously, taking a moment to compose himself; "okay," he sighed, tenderly bracing an arm against Dean's leg and began to wash the cold clammy foot, dabbing away the disinfectant stains with a gossamer light touch.

Once done, he gently dried where he could touch and wrapped a clean, fresh bandage around the leg to prevent the brace from chafing, finally strapping the battered limb back up into it's protective prison.

He stood on shaking legs panting as if he had just run a marathon.

xxxxx

Dean smiled his approval and Sam knew exactly what he had done to protect his baby brother.

He wasn't letting Dean get away with that stunt unrewarded.

Striding over to the sink, Sam soaked another cloth, turning to pat Dean's shoulder.

"Lean forward.

"Dean gave Sam a questioning look before he leaned forward as requested, and flinched slightly, feeling the comforting heat of the damp cloth which Sam pressed against his back.

"How's that feel?" Sam asked quietly

"Good," Dean's response was barely a whisper.

Sam worked in silence, rubbing gently comforting circles of care, the hot, soapy cloth gliding smoothly over the contours of Dean's back, the warm water permeating tense muscles, soothing and relaxing. He smiled as he felt Dean's breathing deepen and even out beneath his circling hand.

"How ya doin' there bro'?"

"Mmmmm …"

Sam grinned and draped a towel across Dean's shoulders, gently patting him dry, taking extreme care over and around the patches of bruising.

Once the job was complete, both brothers seemed contented with the outcome.

"Thanks Sammy," Dean smiled droopily, "I don' smell like I've been used to mop a floor now."

xxxxx

Sam helped Dean into a fresh T-shirt and eased him back into the wheelchair. Together they retired to the living room, where it didn't take long at all for Sam to realise that Dean was tired.

Sleep is good … it was becoming Sam's mantra.

Encouraging Dean to cat-nap for an hour, Sam then found that the downside of that particular strategy was that Dean woke up refreshed.

Refreshed and bored.

And a bored Dean was always bad news; particularly for Sam.

A brief flick through the few watchable channels on Bobby's archaic TV set gleaned a collection of daytime TV programmes which would struggle to stimulate anyone with an IQ in double figures, and Sam found himself stuck for ideas; he didn't think that allowing Dean to surf porn on the laptop was a particularly good idea at this stage in his recovery and he was pretty sure that I-spy wasn't going to do the job.

In between blowing bubbles into his coffee and flicking lint balls from the carpet at Sam, Dean eventually spoke up; "surely there must be something I can just sit and read so you don' have to waste your time sittin' an' watchin' me then you could go off and do laundry or paint your toenails or somethin'?"

Sam shrugged, the abuse drifting over him like a summer breeze. The problem was not so much finding something Dean could read, it was finding something that would grip Dean's diminishing attention span for more than a couple of minutes.

"Well, apart from all Bobby's occult research crap and a pile of dog-eared Readers Digest dust traps from about thirty years ago, the only reading material I can think of is that mysterious Harry Potter book in your duffel," he replied.

Dean frowned, letting out a petulant huff, "well if that's all we've got, I suppose it'll have to do," his face lifted into a wicked grin; "better than sitting here looking at your ugly mug."

Rooting around in the bag, Sam handed 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' to Dean who effected an unconvincing scowl and took it far more eagerly than his grudging thanks indicated.

"Sheesh, I can't believe I'm reduced to readin' some crappy kids boo … " he hesitated, lost in the printed words for a moment; "jeez, that Hermione's a smart chick."

xxxxx

Dear journal

It's been four hours and I haven't heard a peep out of him.

Thank you, Harry Potter; I love you - in a manly, wholesome, best buddies kind of way that's in no way weird or creepy, of course.

I wonder what time the bookstore opens tomorrow?

xxxxx

Sam's hand shook as he put the phone down and looked back to his brother, sitting in his bed, devouring the last few pages of his 'crappy kids book' in wide-eyed, open-mouthed fascination.

Bobby's call had been most welcome given that Sam had begun to wonder where the older man had got to, but the news he had to impart was mixed.

"Yeah, I got the Impala …"

"I'm on my way - be about another four to five hours, this damn recovery truck can't get over fifty …"

"Ya might wanna try an' get Dean off to sleep before I get back because that idjit's gonna tear the place apart tryin' to get to see his girl an' as much as I love that boy, I ain't bringing her into the house for him …"

It was the final part of the conversation that turned Sam's blood to ice.

"Jeez boy, you should see the state of it; I don't know how he got out of it alive."

xxxxx

Dear journal

Looks like Winchester luck decided to smile on us for once; don't know why but, hey, gift horses and all that. 

I won't be criticising our luck for a while. 

I will, however, kick Bambi's ass into the next damn state when we find him.

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

xxxxx

Dear journal

I felt myself drifting awake, but wasn't entirely sure why.

Of course, I couldn't be sure because I was half asleep but a tiny little instinct buried deep in my addled semi-conscious brain was telling me it was obscenely early.

Then from the kitchen I heard something clatter, a dropped spoon I think, followed by an angry grunt of "oh balls!"

Now I know what woke me.

I know from long experience there is this mysterious and directly inverse relationship between how quiet Bobby is and how quiet he's trying to be.

When he's just going about his daily business without a care in the world, the man moves like a cat burglar; but this morning, he's clearly doing his best not to wake us, and his simple act of brewing a coffee is registering 5.9 on the Richter scale.

xxxxx

Sam smiled and rolled over with a grunt as Bobby attempted to fill the kettle and the plumbing let out a long and painful rattle as if it were carrying ball-bearings instead of water.

"Oh BALLS!"

Despite his original intention to pretend to be asleep for another hour for Bobby's sake, Sam felt himself struggling to hold back the laughter.

Within moments, he heard something being placed on the table beside the couch and the mellow aroma of coffee assaulted his nose, washing away any last trace of sleep.

He opened his eyes, body still jerking with suppressed giggles, and looked up at Bobby.

"Seein' as yer awake, laughin' boy, ya may as well have a caffeine kick."

Sam smiled his thanks.

Both men looked down at Dean at the same time.

He was still fast asleep, Sam was pleased to note; Bobby's theatricals in the kitchen had gone completely un-noticed. Lying on his back, the shallow rise and fall of his chest was smooth and reassuring, and his face looked relaxed, no sign of the pained tightening that Sam had noticed previous mornings.

He looked about as well as Sam had seen him look since the accident.

"He okay?" Bobby asked.

Sam nodded, "yeah, he's doin' good I think," he smiled, easing long unco-ordinated legs off the sagging couch, and heaving himself into a knock-kneed standing position, gripping the arm of the couch to avoid faceplanting into the middle of Dean's bed.

xxxxx

Sam held his coffee mug in shaking hands and stood in Bobby's yard staring at what Bobby had driven through the night to bring home.

The Impala.

Or more appropriately, the wreckage of the Impala.

He felt sick.

Bleeding oil all over Bobby's yard, she listed drunkenly toward him, her front end a grotesque confusion of crumpled metal and broken glass, the odd stray wire hanging out of the wreckage like a redundant sinew.

The worst of the damage was on the drivers side - that was clearly where the main impact had been.

It was then Sam noticed, in a terrifying echo of the fate Dean could have suffered, her drivers side front wheel was missing, completely sheared off in the impact.

He walked over and peered into the drivers side of the car and saw how her engine and it's component parts had been forced back, invading the drivers footwell with a solid block of unyielding metal.

That's where Dean's leg had been.

His eyes scanned along the shattered dash to the misplaced and twisted steering column, then to the bent steering wheel.

Bent by the impact with Dean's chest.

He saw how parts of the intruding wreckage had been torn away by hacksaw and bolt cutters, cut away by the rescue services to extricate his brother from the terrible bone crushing tangle.

It was only then he realised that the drivers door was completely absent. Also removed by the rescue services.

Bobby stood behind him, calm and ready to reassure. He had already seen this horror show, registered the shock and put it behind him.

Now his concern was for the younger Winchester. He hadn't told Sam nor would he ever, of the bloodstains he had cleaned up as best he could, before he hit the road yesterday.

Sam made no attempt to hide the tears welling in his eyes as Bobby guided him gently but firmly back to the house.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Now that I've seen the wreckage, I'm still not entirely sure how I feel.

Horrified, shocked, upset, sure … all of those things. But above and beyond everything else, I feel strangely euphoric.

Dean should never have got out of that mess alive. 

But he did.

And not just alive, but in one piece (sort of). 

And I simply can't stop smiling. Perhaps Winchester Luck wanted to watch the game too, and she was too busy to screw with us this time. Perhaps it was just random good luck, or divine intervention, or Santa or the Easter Bunny? The tooth fairy maybe?

Who knows?

Whatever it was, just … thank you.

xxxxx

Sam's euphoria was not shared by the elder Winchester who, as Bobby had rightly predicted, practically tore the place apart to get out to see his baby.

Sam firmly insisted Dean have some breakfast, his painkillers and his antibiotics, and then put Sam's hoodie on before helping him into the wheelchair and heading out into the yard where Dean caught his first sight of the picture of devastation before him.

"Holy …"

Dean's face fell into a pebble-eyed mask of shattered horror.

"Look at her," he whispered emptily; "look at what I did to my girl …"

Sam patted his shoulder, "you didn't do that bro', there was nothing you could do to prevent it."

"I'm not just gonna get Bambi now," Dean growled; "I'm gonna extinct his whole freakin' species!"

xxxxx

As they stood and stared at the wreckage, Bobby busied himself looking over it, writing in a notebook, studying, probing and examining.

"Hey Bobby," Dean called, "the wheel's sheared off, have you checked the integrity of the axle?"

Bobby, on his knees, peered over the folded hood; "not yet son, but I will."

"Okay."

Bobby continued to examine the wreckage.

"Hey, is that oil? Make sure you check the sump…"

Bobby's head appeared prairie-dog-like over the mangled hood again; "yeah, I'm gettin' to it."

"What about the steering column, it's crooked - are you gonna look at that?"

"Nah, I thought I might leave it so ya can drive round corners easier'," Bobby snapped, "'course I'm gonna look at it ya idjit!"

Dean nodded, having the decency to look abashed, and worried his bottom lip with his teeth as his damp eyes continued to scan the devastation.

"Bobby, don' forget …"

"Sam," Bobby called, ignoring the elder Winchester's entreaties, "a word please."

xxxxx

Bobby dragged Sam to one side.

"Sam, do you know what I'm doing right now?"

Sam shrugged, "assessing the damage?" he offered.

"Yeah, that's right, assessing the damage," Bobby replied, nodding sagely.

"I've gotta check everything that's damaged an' see whether it's something I can fix or if it's something I hafta replace; kinda like triage in an ER unit. I have to do this before I can do any work on the car."

Sam nodded, unsure where Bobby was heading with this.

"What I find now will determine how smoothly the work goes," Bobby continued cryptically.

Sam nodded again, more vacantly this time.

"An' this diagnostic stuff is a lot of complicated, detailed work," Bobby stated with a sense of finality.

Sam nodded helplessly.

Rolling his eyes irritably at Sam's obvious cluelessness, Bobby ploughed on regardless.

"And so to make sure I can assess all the damage and make a decent plan of work, I have to give this my undivided attention," Bobby gestured airily toward the Impala.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, glancing briefly at the wreck.

"An' I can't do that with him blathering and fretting the whole time," Bobby snapped as his patience began to wane, "he's gonna drive me to freakin' drink!"

CLANG!

The penny dropped resoundingly.

"Ah, gotcha;" Sam smiled, "I'll take him inside."

Bobby shook his head, "no," he replied, lowering his voice, "that ain't gonna do any good; he's gonna worry himself into neuroses sittin' in there knowin' I'm out here workin' on the Impala."

Sam hesitated.

"Well, where then?"

Bobby sighed; jeez, when did this suddenly become such hard work?

"It's been nearly two weeks Sam," Bobby explained quietly, "ten days stuck in that crap hole hospital then another couple of days stuck in there," Bobby gestured toward the house with his head; "the boy's lookin' peaky."

Bobby looked up toward the sky; "it's a beautiful day, take him out an' let him get the sun on his face for a couple o' hours, an' more importantly, get the soppy sonofabitch out from under my feet!"

Sam got the feeling it wasn't a request.

"But where," he whispered, "he's not gonna go anywhere in that wheelchair without puttin' up a fight."

Bobby thought for a moment.

"They've opened a new coffee shop down at the mall, it's nice, lots of seats outside, plenty of room."

Sam shook his head hesitantly, "I don't know Bobby, you know how he feels about bein' in that wheelchair …"

"Well it's gonna test your powers of persuasion then, ain't it, c'mon law boy!"

Sam stared back at his brother who hadn't moved; sad eyes still latched unblinkingly onto his crippled car.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Is there some law I'm not aware of that prevents folk from tying someone into a wheelchair and dragging them off to have coffee against their will?

Um, because if there is, I think I might be about to break it.

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

xxxxx

Sam walked round the wreck of the Impala toward his brother, formulating his argument in his mind.

"Hey Dean," he asked sweetly.

"Hmmmm… yeah?"

"I was thinking…" he began before he was rudely cut off.

"I wonder if Bobby's noticed the casing missin' where the firefighters cut me out?"

"Uh yeah, dude, I'm sure he has," sam replied with an eye-roll, "look, I was thinking'…"

"Hey, have you seen the radiator grille? It's …"

"Hey Dean, why don't we go out somewhere?" Sam interjected before Dean got too excited about his radiator grille.

Dean hesitated. "You jokin?"

Taking his cue manfully, sam responded; "No, I was just thinking, it's such a nice sunny day an' you've been stuck indoors for a couple of weeks, thought it might be nice to maybe, uh, say, go for a coffee somewhere?"

Dean stared briefly at Sam as if he was speaking swahili.

"Nah," he grunted, "gonna stay here an' help Bobby."

Bobby flicked Sam a dangerous look across the Impala's battered roof.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Well, that went well.

xxxxx

Sam swallowed nervously, trying another tack.

"C'mon man, you can help Bobby later;" he wheedled, "they've opened a new coffee shop down at the mall, it's really nice."

Dean shook his head, "nah, don't want coffee."

Sam sighed and rubbed his head; it was beginning to ache.

"Why don't we just take a little stroll out in the sunshine?"

Cringing, Sam immediately knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"Oh yeah, a little stroll, perhaps," Dean snorted, glaring up at Sam;" we can find a club an' go dancing' afterwards."

"Sorry man, that's not what I meant," Sam blathered, fishing helplessly for the right words; "I meant…"

"You meant YOU stroll down to the coffee shop an' push me in this contraption so I can be an object of pity for everyone who sees me."

"Dean, what planet are you on?" Sam snapped, biting back the urge to swear; "people in wheelchairs are not an object of pity to normal, enlightened people. They'll see you exactly for what you are - a fit guy with a serious injury."

Dean wilted slightly, shaking his head; "I don' wanna go out in this Sammy, I promise we'll go out when I can get on the crutches."

Sam wasn't too proud to plead; "Dean please, I'm worried about you, you've been stuck inside for two weeks, you need to get a bit of fresh air, feel the sun on your face."

Dean patted his brother's shoulder, "hey, chill dude; I'm fine here, got all the fresh air and sunshine I need," and promptly turned his attention back to the Impala.

xxxxx

Bobby watched the exchange from over the Impala's mangled fender and shook his head with exasperation.

"Hey princess," he called to Dean, "the new Barista's name is Shannon, an' it's not just the cappuccinos she steams."

Dean's eyes widened as he looked up at the older man; "yeah?"

"Yeah, trust me kid, the landscape there is much nicer there than it is here."

Dean grinned as if he were actually considering the idea.

Then Bobby swooped with the killer blow.

"An' they do Krispy Kremes."

Staring at Bobby, Dean turned to Sam who nodded enthusiastically. He looked down at the wheelchair, and at his leg supported by the raised footplate pointing straight out ahead of him.

There was a brief silence before Dean spoke again.

"C'mon then, bitch, come an' help me smarten up."

xxxxx

Dear journal

As I wheeled Dean back into the house, Bobby called over asking me, "what the hell did they teach ya at that flashy law school?"

At that moment, I did have to wonder.

xxxxx

Sam helped Dean change his sweatpant pyjama bottoms for a pair of cut jeans, then stood by and allowed Dean to shave as best he could without interference before reaching for the aftershave bottle.

He turned back to Dean, ready to take up position behind the wheelchair, only to be confronted with his worst nightmare.

Dean was brandishing a tub of 'HORNY, THE HAIR GEL FOR MEN' in his direction.

"Can' lift my freakin' arms high enough for long enough, can you do it?"

Sam timidly took the tub from Dean as if it were a live grenade, and unscrewed the lid, scooping what he judged to be a small measure of the clear goo onto his fingertips.

Hesitantly threading his long fingers through Dean's fringe, he concentrated fiercely as he brushed, and lifted and manipulated the surprisingly soft hair, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Oh crap…

xxxxx

"How's it look," Dean asked.

Sam tried to arrange his features in such a way that they didn't give away the fact that Dean looked like he'd stuck his finger into an electric socket.

"Great man, you look - uh - awesome," Sam lied weakly.

xxxxx

The walk to the mall took a leisurely twenty minutes; Sam whistled quietly as he pushed the wheelchair along in the dappled afternoon sunlight and watched the soft breeze ruffling Dean's hair, undoing some of the damage Sam had inflicted, so yeah, things were cool.

As they passed the time, sometimes bickering and bantering, other times sharing a companionable silence, they inhaled the sweet scents of the summer gardens they passed. The heady fragrances of roses, honeysuckle and lavender matching Sam's mood, a stark contrast to the odour of rust, old tyres and oil that they had left behind in Bobby's yard.

They eventually reached the coffee shop and to Sam's delight, it was relatively empty.

"Here we are dude;" he reassured softly, parking up the chair beside a table and dropped to his haunches beside it.

"Here' okay?" he asked, "we're out of the way; nice and al-fresco!"

"Yeah, here's good;" Dean replied quietly, glancing around uneasily. He burrowed down into the wheelchair, determined to remain unseen.

"Be back in a sec," Sam jogged inside the shop to order the coffees and donuts.

xxxxx

When he emerged, he saw Dean speaking animatedly to a young, auburn-haired woman. He couldn't help himself as he sped up fractionally in case Dean needed any help.

It was when he approached the table he heard the conversation.

"… yeah well, Deborah, those black runs are so unpredictable, we had no warning of the avalanche at all."

Deborah's eyes widened in horror, "oh my god, you poor thing;" she gasped, her hand flying to her open mouth.

"Anyway," sighed Dean, "I managed to dig us out and drag myself and my brother back towards the hospital," he turned to see Sam heading towards him; "here he is now," he gestured towards Sam.

Deborah tore her eyes from the injured man to glance at Sam; "oh your brother was just telling me about your terrible ordeal in St Moritz;" she gushed, "you're lucky to have such a brave brother, I couldn't imagine how terrible it must be to be buried in snow for eight hours."

Sam nodded, "uh - yeah, it was real bad," he muttered, thrusting his hands into his pockets and not even trying to sound convincing.

She looked up to see Shannon scuttling across the terrace with a tray of coffees and donuts.

"Oh, here's your drinks Dean, I won't keep you;" there was a hint of disappointment in her voice as she wished Dean a swift recovery and smiled knowingly.

He gave her his ladykiller wink, patting the breast pocket of his jacket to indicate he had her phone number safe and sound and immediately turned his fifty thousand megawatt smile to Shannon and her perky hourglass figure which was barely contained by the minuscule apron she was wearing.

"Oh heavens, you poor soul; how did you do that?" She asked kindly, nodding towards Dean's leg as she placed two coffees and four assorted donuts on the table.

"Oh, it's nothin' much;" Dean waved his hand dismissively. "It was the horse," he stated flatly, ignoring Sam's rolling eyes.

"Damn mustang was wild, and determined to throw me off," Dean deadpanned "I was ridin' it well, but my damn spur caught in the breastcollar, unbalanced me."

Shannon's mouth dropped into an 'O' of awed shock; "you're a rodeo rider? Jeez, you guys are amazing," she cooed, "so brave - those horses are so big and strong and fierce!"

Sam sat behind her, staring at Dean and silently mouthing 'you lying dickwad'.

"Ah well, we jus' do a job," Dean replied modestly, "but sometimes, things go bad," he gestured to his leg; "like this."

She smiled sweetly, "you take good care of that leg now," she smiled; "I'm gonna look out for you next time the rodeo's on TV."

She headed back into the café, leaving it so late to turn her head away from her incapacitated customer that she almost fell over a chair.

"You're shameless," Sam stated calmly as he sipped his almond cappuccino.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Complete tally for Dean's first trip out since the accident:

Large black americano and large almond cappuccino (both on the house courtesy of Shannon)

Two Krispy Kreme Donuts each - feel sick now

Seven assorted hot girls cooing all over the injured hero

Seven different phone numbers including Shannon's written on the bottom of our receipt

xxxxx

Ways in which Dean broke his leg: 

Skiing in an avalanche - three times

Rodeo riding - twice

Parachuting into Darfur with medical supplies - once

Can't tell you; black ops … you know how it is - once

xxxxx

Dean wants to go out for coffee and donuts again tomorrow.

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

xxxxx

Dear journal

So here I am again.

Sitting in a hospital, staring at walls decorated by that mysterious hospital-issue 'bodily fluids' range of paints; this place is a sort of warm bile with a hint of mucus Hmmm, perhaps it's more of an ear-wax shade … difficult to tell in this light. That fifty watt bulb up there doesn't really lend itself to creative display.

Anyway, at least I'm not scared half to death this time, although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a bit nervous; it's been almost four weeks since the accident and it's Dean's first fracture clinic appointment here at the Sioux Falls City Hospital.

He's been in there nearly half an hour having his broken bits zapped with X rays, they must be done with him soon.

I think we're going to be seeing a lot of these walls over the next few months, I'd better get used to them …

xxxxx

Sam's foot tapped out a nervously spasmodic tattoo to some imaginary beat circling through his mind, when the clinic door opened, and a middle-aged nurse pushed the wheelchair containing Dean, irritably trying to wriggle back into his jacket, out to join Sam.

"Hey dude," Sam asked, instinctively reaching over to help Dean retrieve the stray sleeve, "how'd it go?"

Dean shrugged; "don' know," he replied, "they've taken the pictures an' they want to talk to us about them in a few minutes."

"How's the leg lookin?"

"'bout the same, but a bit less swollen," Dean replied, now wrestling with the cuff of his jacket which seemed to have ensnared his thumb; "Doc said it was lookin' good considering it's only been four weeks since …"

Wide eyes tilted up towards Sam, gauging his reaction.

That was all Sam needed to hear, and he allowed a broad smile to light up his face, a smile which spread infectiously to the face before him, softly crinkling the edges of the wide enquiring eyes.

The faint tingle of nerves that had been gripping Sam's chest over the last two weeks, ever since he removed Dean's leg brace for the first time, evaporated and he let out the deliciously long exhale of a man who had been holding his breath for a fortnight.

It was only a few minutes before a young doctor, stepped through the door and beckoned them warmly into a consulting room.

Sam's eyebrows scrambled up into his hairline as he stared at the man's short, unruly dark hair and round wire-rimmed glasses.

What the hell? Malfoy at that other hospital and now …

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sam took up the handles of the wheelchair and allowed himself to be led into a room with three Xray plates illuminated along a wall light in front of them. Two different views of a mechanically recovered leg and one of a rib cage; all belonging to Dean, Sam assumed. He couldn't help the cringe which skittered up his spine at the sight of the terrible tangle of metalwork illuminated in all it's stark glory.

"Your leg is exactly as I would expect it to look after only a month," The doctor smiled reassuringly; "nothing here at all to worry about." He ran a finger across the plates, pointing out different pieces of metalwork and portions of bone discussing them in gleeful details seemingly unaware that Sam's entire blood supply had taken a swan dive south while his belly had climbed north and was currently attempting to force it's way out between his clenched teeth."

Sam didn't hear a whole lot of what the doctor had to say, he was too busy trying to fight the urge to hurl all over the top of Dean's head, but his mind rejoined the conversation just as ther doctor appeared to be wrapping up.

"… so as I said Dean, it's doing well, very well, but you must accept there's still a long way to go."

The doctor's finger moved across to the X-ray picture of Dean's chest and Sam began to breathe easier as his stray body components began to gradually return to their rightful places.

The plate showed just the faintest hint of a rapidly healing crack feathering it's way across the lower third of the sternum. This he could cope with; cracked ribs was something the brothers had dealt with on a depressingly regular basis. A cracked sternum was something new, but it was nothing too grotesque, it was in the same part of the world and was well within Sam's medical comfort zone.

He knew the drill. Right from the beginning he'd known he had to force Dean to keep breathing as deeply as he could bear to avoid serious lung problems; he'd done it all before; patiently coaching Dean to breathe regularly and deeply despite the sometimes excruciating pain, just as Dean had done for him several times; only without the sulky abuse.

Thus it was when the doctor explained that his examination of Dean's lungs showed they were in excellent condition given his injuries, Sam smiled proudly; even though Dean didn't hesitate to take all the credit for it.

xxxxx

Dear journal

At last

Things are looking up, I can hardly dare to believe how good it sounds. All good news; when was the last time we got good news?

Dean's leg is looking as well as can be expected, his chest is healing up well, and he can start to use crutches if it doesn't hurt him too much.

... was it my imagination, or did Dean look a bit disappointed when the Doctor said he could start using his crutches?

xxxxx

The doctor led both men back out into the reception area, and shook them by the hand.

"We'll see you again in a month Dean, but in the meantime, if you experience any problems just ask for me, Doctor Potter."

He looked across in concern as Sam choked briefly.

"Are you alright sir?"

xxxxx

Sam pushed the wheelchair out of the hospital; he felt like he was walking on air.

"Hey dude, d'y wanna stop off for a coffee, a donut and a dozen extra phone numbers to celebrate?"

Dean turned, looking up "Yeah, that's be cool," he replied, his smile turning into a smirk; "I can' help it if women keep giving me their phone numbers, it'd be rude to turn them down."

Sam laughed, "well, if you didn't wave your busted leg in the face of every moderately attractive woman within a mile, they might not keep giving them to you."

Dean shrugged, "you're only jealous."

"Why would I be jealous of you, Wheelie?"

"Well, for a start, you haven't got every woman in Sioux Falls falling over themselves to make a fuss of your injured ass."

Sam shuddered at the thought; "I suppose I should be thankful you didn't injure that as well, otherwise lord knows what you would be telling them."

Dean's smirk deepened as he turned again to look up at Sam, his eyes sparkling with wicked glee, "an' if they didn't believe me, I could always show them."

Sam laughed; "fracture whore," he taunted, flicking the back of Dean's absurdly spiky head; a testament to Sam's continuing ineptitude with the hair gel.

"Menopausal bitch," replied Dean with a grin.

Sam turned the wheelchair and the brothers headed toward the coffee shop; toward donuts - and toward all the oestrogen Sioux Falls could muster.

He whistled cheerfully as they went.

xxxxx

It was some two hours later that a beat-up Toyota Camry with one black door and three blue ones pulled up in Bobby's yard, and Sam hopped out, eager to impart the news of Dean's good progress to their friend, uncle and mentor.

Sated by coffee and more donuts, and in possession of five more phone numbers, Dean shuffled across the back seat and was being helped into the wheelchair as Bobby strolled towards them wiping his hands on an oily rag.

"Hey Sam, hey Hopalong; howd'ya get on?"

The words gushed out of Sam's mouth in an excited torrent; "great Bobby, real great; the doc said he's healing really well, doing as good as can be expected."

Abandoned by the side of the car, Dean leaned over to see round his brother, almost tipping the wheelchair over. He looked up at Bobby, rolling his eyes and pointing at Sam; "friggin' woman," he mouthed.

Cutting Sam off mid-flow, Dean spoke up; "Hey Bobby, how's my girl comin'?"

"Gimme a chance, I haven't even started on her, still lookin' over the damage you done to her, and checkin' parts I got," he replied, rubbing his beard the way he did when he was preoccupied; "would have got the job finished if I could find my damn wrench set - been lookin' for the darn thing for two days."

Dean sunk into a frowny sulk; "it wasn't me," he grunted; "I didn't do that to my baby, it was that freakin' Bambi, the bastard."

Bobby sighed in exasperation; "well, does he know where my wrench set is?"

Dean's frown deepened as he shook his head; "no, the only thing he's gonna find is the toe of my boot up his hairy ass."

Chuckling quietly, Bobby turned to Sam, "Y'haven't seen it Sam, have ya?"

Sam shrugged helplessly, "Bobby, when have I ever been anywhere near any of your tools? I wouldn't dare;" he added.

"Well, I don't know what I've done with it," Bobby snorted wearily letting out a deep sigh; "and I can't even blame ya brother this time."

Sam grinned at Dean's indignant pout, "well keep looking, if it turns up in the house, I'll let you know."

Bobby nodded with an irritable grunt and trudged back into his workshop.

xxxxx

In the dusty gloom of his workshop, Bobby scratched his head under his cap and thought so hard his head began to spin.

"C'mon Singer, get a grip, how hard can it be? Ya only used them two days ago; they couldn't have gone freakin' far."

He stood, hands on hips, and scanned the workshop, the same he had done a hundred times already this morning, back and forth, up and down ...

Perhaps the light was a little better this time, perhaps it was that his mind was now at rest after Dean's hospital visit, perhaps it was that he was just going goddamned senile; whatever the reason, this time - he saw them.

"Sonofabitch, why the hell did I put them all the way up there?"

The rusty tin case containing Bobby's wrenches was just visible poking over the edge of high shelf, normally reserved for items he barely ever used.

He sighed; "senile, definitely senile …jeez, I definitely need to start takin' it easy."

He reached up on tiptoe and grabbed the handle of the box.

xxxxx

Dear journal

I'm staring at the bile and mucus and earwax and whatever-the-crap-it-is coloured wall again.

I can't believe it, I can't believe it, I can't believe it.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Bobby found his friggin', pissy, goddamned wrench set, I mean really found it.

The ham-fisted old jerk pulled it off a high shelf then dropped it on his foot.

He's in there right now being plastered up by Harry - um, I mean Doctor Potter. Two broken toes and broken meta-thingy-bone. 

Whatever. It doesn't matter; his foot's crapped to hell for the next six weeks. The whole deal is complete twenty-four carat gold plated crap. 

I'm gonna have two of them clattering around the house on crutches, all pissed and frustrated that they're injured and that the Impala's not getting any work done, and who's the poor, pathetic sucker? The freakin' sap who's going to bear the brunt of all this shit?

Yeah, that's right ….

I think I might just step outside and go mad. It seems like the only sensible option at the moment.

...

...

...

I may be some time.

xxxxx

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

xxxxx

Dear journal

My name is Sam Winchester; I just wanted to note that somewhere because I am bound to forget sometime soon, and when I am found wandering the streets wearing only my boxers on my head and one sock, the authorities are going to need to know who I am.

Over the course of these Last few weeks, I have been heavily criticising my brother, Dean for being a drama queen, for being a rude and unco-operative patient, for calling me a girl, for making a fuss, being a royal pain in the ass and generally making my life a nightmare.

I now know that I have been being very unfair to Dean, and that my brother is in fact a joy to take care of.

I know this, dear journal, my dear little blue friend, because I have never taken care of Bobby before. 

xxxxx

The clock had just struck 1 am when Sam switched off the night light and turned, tucking his journal under his pillow. He lay back on the couch, staring through the hazy darkness at the ceiling. His eyes were so unbearably tired, they felt like someone had taken them out and peeled them.

Dropping a tense, corded forearm over his eyes, he sucked in a long deep breath and sighed. He didn't know what he would have done without that little book, that little safety valve for his end-of-tether rants and desperate outpourings. His life had suddenly become so much more difficult since Bobby's mishap.

Okay, so today he had helped both Dean and Bobby out of bed, helped them dress, picked Dean up when he fell over his crutches, picked Bobby up when he fell over Dean, made breakfast, walked Rumsfeldt, done the grocery run, got back from the grocery run to be informed that cake was NOT a suitable substitute for pie, gone out on the pie run, and picked up a Harry Potter book from the charity store (how had Dean got onto the fifth book already when he steadfastly insisted every one of them was kids' trash from beginning to end?)

He had also cleaned the kitchen, done the laundry, made the dinner, thrown away most of the dinner (okay, what did they expect, miracles? He'd never made lasagne before), phoned for take-out pizza, spent an hour scraping away half a ton of béchamel sauce welded to the inside of the oven, walked Rumsfeldt again; and in between time, made countless mugs of coffee, kept the casualties comfortable and plied with painkillers, and above all tried to keep Dean's mind off his languishing baby, trying and failing on several occasions to make it clear to Dean that just because he could use his crutches from time to time, that didn't mean he was fit enough to work on her (somehow becoming a tiny bit more mobile had made Dean a LOT more frustrated).

All in all, and taking everything into consideration however, today had been a lot less fraught than yesterday. Well, Dean only had himself to blame; fancy asking Sam to trim his hair just because the barbers was closed for a couple of days and, typical of Dean, he wouldn't wait.

Reassuring Dean that it would grow back in a month, or so didn't seem to help.

He'd lost count of how many times Bobby called him 'idjit'; the number had just rocketed by the time the lasagne debacle was over.

And now, the pissiest thing of them all was that as tired as he was, he knew that thanks to Dean's interminable fidgeting on the squeaky bed, coupled with the fact that Bobby was now sleeping downstairs on two armchairs pushed together and this added his wall-shaking snores into the equation, he had exactly zero chance of getting any sleep whatsoever.

xxxxx

Dear journal

When I go mad, I hope I don't get really crazy mad and murder either of them because that would be really awkward.

xxxxx

He watched through the dark as Dean nestled down beneath a tangle of blankets with a throaty sigh and knuckled his eye, wrinkling his nose with a sniff before settling back into his fidgety, spring squeaking sleep.

On the other side of the room Bobby's soft snores suddenly rose in volume, and Sam stifled a frustrated sob.

Is it possible to knock yourself unconscious with a baseball bat? Right now he guessed he would try anything.

xxxxx

"Sam …"

Sam's eyes flickered open on hearing a faint voice whisper his name and his disorientated mind, addled by a fleeting catnap, instinctively turned to Dean.

"You okay dude?"

He was rewarded with a softly stuttering snore.

Watching Dean, his profile illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the grimy window, Sam smiled. His brother looked utterly at peace, soft breaths huffing between slightly parted lips, he was for once calm and still, and clearly nested in the deepest of sleeps.

"Sam …"

The voice was muffled and barely a whisper, he turned to look across the room at Bobby but the older man was slumped in the makeshift bed, as deeply asleep as Dean.

So unless either of them were talking in their sleep …

"Sam …"

… In a child's voice …

"Okay," thought Sam, "it's started; I'm hearing voices, I'm officially crazy."

"Sam, find me where you put me …"

Without knowing exactly why, Sam reached under the pillow and pulled out his journal.

He squinted through the darkness at the little book, running a hand softly over it's cover. It was starting to look well-used and grubby, like a child's most beloved toy; but he still treasured it above everything else he owned right now.

"Sam …"

A little louder, clearer.

Sam nearly dropped the book; "Hello?"

"Hello Sam."

Sam picked the book up with shaking fingers.

"Did … did you just talk to me?"

He glanced across at Dean and Bobby, still both deeply asleep.

"I'm talking to a book," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose; "yup, definitely crazy."

"Open my pages, Sam."

Sam hesitated nervously before he opened the book; then almost yelled out at the sight before him.

The face of a pretty young girl gazed up at him from the blank page.

It's gentle contours rose out of the page like a sweetly carved and faintly tinted bas-relief. Framed with chocolate brown curls, her face stretched into a shy, dimpled smile.

"Hello Sam."

Sam stared, open mouthed, until he realised he must seem very rude.

"Um, hello"

The two faces regarded each other for a moment until Sam eventually found his voice.

"Uh, who are you?"

"I am the face of your journal;" the smile broadened, reaching the corners of her softly liquid grey eyes; "I am here to be your friend during a difficult time."

Sam's blank face asked the next question.

"I was born in 1905, the eldest of three children; but my family were lost in the great 'flu epidemic of 1918. My parents were the first to pass, and I was the last. With the help of my Aunt, who survived, I nursed my younger brothers until they died. I know what it is like to care for someone you love who is suffering."

Sam felt his mouth began to drop again.

"My great support during that dreadful time was my diary. It was where I could lose myself while the torments of hell were raging around me; I could forget my parents were dying in the next room, I could forget the choking and wailing all around me; I could immerse myself in stories of brave knights and castles and dragons that I invented to escape."

"I'm so sorry," Sam croaked helplessly.

"My kindly aunt nursed me to the very end. She ptacticed white witchcraft and at the moment of my death she cast a spell, at my request, to bind my spirit to my diary so that I might be able to be a friend and a comfort to others in need forever."

Glancing around the room, Sam could see his companions were still asleep.

"They won't hear me," she reassured; "only you can see and hear me."

"So other people have used this journal before me?" Sam stammered.

"Yes," the little girl smiled proudly, "many souls like you have been comforted by my journal before you," she replied, "but I don't reveal myself to many of them;" she hesitated for a moment; "in fact I haven't ever revealed myself to any of them - except you."

Sam shook his head in disbelief; "Why me?"

"I know of you, Sam Winchester; I know what you and your brother do," she stated quietly; "most people would be scared to see me, so I remain hidden, giving them their comfort through the pages of the journal alone."

"You're very brave," Sam remarked, "spirits usually avoid us because of what we do."

"You only harm spirits who deserve to be harmed," she responded without a hint of nervousness.

"It's amazing that I found you," Sam's bewildered face softened into a smile for the first time.

"No I found you," she corrected him gently, "why do you think you felt such a strong bond as soon as you saw the book?"

"So you …"

She nodded; "I have some small abilities; like the ability to move an object such as a book to an appropriate place."

"like a shelf in a hospital shop," Sam indicated his understanding.

"The words you write in this book reinforce the strong bond of love and devotion that I knew and your brother shared."

Sam glanced back to his last entry in the journal, and cringed:

Dear journal

If Dean mentions that freakin' lasagne one more time, I'm gonna shove Bobby's ladle right up his ass! 

…

"Well, most of the time," she giggled.

xxxxx

Sam stared at the book. Perhaps he wasn't going mad after all; he didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

The sweet face began to fade; "I will be here for you, and the first thing you must do is sleep, my poor, exhausted friend."

"Wait …" feeling himself beginning to drift, Sam momentarily raised his voice to stop the face from disappearing, and sheepishly looked to see if he had disturbed the sleeping figures around him. Bobby's snores continued unabated as Dean shifted unconsciously, eliciting a pained creak from the old springs, and snuffled softly into his pillow, leaving Sam satisfied that all was well.

"What do I call you; what's your name?" he asked his new friend.

"My name is Hermione;" the little face beamed happily as it faded away leaving Sam staring at a blank page.

He grinned as he sunk back into his bed and allowed delicious sleep to claim him.

xxxxx

Dear journal

That figures …

xxxxx

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

xxxxx

"Sam."

"Sam …"

Sam snorted, jolting back to wakefulness when a well-thumbed copy of 'Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince' (paperback, Sam was pleased to note) slammed down on his chest with a hollow thud.

"Shuuugh - wha?"

"Oh, it's awake."

Sitting up on his bed sporting a head of tousled bed-hair and rumpled T-shirt, Dean stared at his brother with an expression that hovered somewhere between irritation, concern and amazement.

"You've been sleeping like the freakin' dead." Bobby hobbled past on one crutch from the kitchen, slopping a half-spilled mug of coffee onto the floor beside Dean's bed.

"I'd ha' salted and burned ya if ya'd stayed there much longer, ya idle sonofabitch," he grumbled.

Sam blinked, rubbing his sleep-glazed eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Uh …" he yawned, running unco-ordinated fingers through his frenzied hair.

"We got tired of waiting for you, so Bobby had to get our freakin' coffee," Dean continued with his shameless guilt trip; "you shouldha' seen the performance of him getting out of that chair without help - like a goddamned upturned turtle."

He faced Sam with a look of intense seriousness somewhat spoiled by the fact that his hair looked like it was having a party. "His foot ain't ever gonna get better if he keeps havin' to move about on it," he warned, "an' then my poor baby ain't ever gonna get fixed!"

His face curled into a satisfied smirk as Bobby's dishcloth flew across the room, plastering itself against the side of his head.

Sam noted that for a change it looked like Bobby was bearing the brunt of Dean's 'be-as-annoying-as-humanly-possible' trait which was in full swing, and silently thanked his lucky stars that he had so far escaped the worst of it.

"An' I've been sittin' here waitin' for my devoted brother to help me up so I could go take a leak," Dean continued, unpeeling the dishcloth; "but oh no; there he was snorin' away like Rip Van friggin' Winkle."

He ignored Sam's weary attempt to justify himself.

"I had to heave my poor broken and achin' body up all by myself so I could crutch on over and see to my requirements."

"An ya weren't exactly a picture of elegance yourself; Peg Leg," Bobby cut in as he lowered himself and a dripping coffee mug heavily back down into the armchair containing his discarded bedding.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled with a shrug, "I must have been real tired!"

"You got any idea how hard it is to stand on one leg an' juggle two crutches while you're tryin' to pee?"

Sam made a point of speaking up; "Dean, I thought we agreed, you're supposed to sit down."

Dean grimaced; "nah that's disgusting, not natural. I mean, I gotta tuck …"

"Okay, OKAY … I'm awake," Sam snapped, his fatigue receding instantly, "too much information bro', WAY too much information."

"Anyways, it doesn't matter that my aim was a bit off," Dean continued regardless; "you're cleanin' the bathroom later, ain't you?"

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust as Bobby rejoined the fray. Okay, so Sam was going to be made to pay for his sleep-in. That much had become crystal clear.

"We wearin' you out boy?" Bobby asked in his most teasing tone; "honestly, we get ya to run a couple of errands an' you're in a coma half the night." He rolled his eyes over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a long draught; "No energy you youngsters."

Sam yawned again.

Arching into a stretch; he didn't care about the snarky abuse. He'd just enjoyed the best nights sleep he'd had since long before Dean's accident and thought back to the words spoken by the mysterious little face in his journal last night; "and the first thing you must do is sleep, my poor, exhausted friend."

xxxxx

Dear journal

I'm still trying to figure out if what happened last night and whether Hermione was real, or a dream, or some kind of stress-induced hallucination …

But that sleep? I'd sell Dean on Ebay for another sleep like that. 

Is it a co-incidence? mind playing tricks? power of suggestion? 

Whatever it is, it's totally awesome, and Hermione, wherever you are, you are my best friend in the whole world.

xxxxx

Sam jolted out of his thoughts when Dean leaned over, his face alive with wicked glee, and slapped him round the head with the Half Blood Prince; "hey bitch; I'm hungry."

Yep, Dean was clearly in 'one of those moods;' his patented eyebrow-waggle was always a bad sign.

xxxxx

Dear journal

What did I do to deserve to be younger brother to the world's oldest nine-year-old?

Questionable bathroom habits, beating me up with Harry Potter, nagging, bitching being a grade one pain in the ass, and ordering me around ...

Ebay?

I'd give him away free to the first sap who asked!

xxxxx

Sam moved to rise when he jerked to a halt, disturbed by the hollow twang of an errant spring followed by a choking yelp.

"Dean?"

Dean shifted awkwardly on the creaking bed, his eyes watering profusely; "You don't wanna know where that spring went," he croaked.

Hesitating, Sam could have sworn he heard a child's giggle.

xxxxx

Later that afternoon, Sam stood beside Dean, discreetly watching over him as he squirmed into a fresh T shirt.

The brothers' morning of snarking and arguing together had led to Bobby cordially inviting them to 'get their idjit asses the hell out from under his friggin feet so he could get a bit of peace an' quiet away from Sam's fussin' an' Dean's moanin' an' mopin' about 'that damned car' before they drive him freakin' insane and he commits bloody murder with one of the goddamned wrenches that left him stuck in here with two bitchin' morons in the first place.'

Even Dean, annoying mood or not, recognised that tone and decided that a trip out for a coffee and a cake and a sly glance at Shannon's butt was preferable to death by wrench-wielding-pissed-one-legged-Bobby.

xxxxx

As Dean changed, Sam's mind wandered to his brother's imminent second appointment at the fracture clinic and took time to study the fading shadow of bruising across his chest; the only remaining visible sign of the rapidly healing damage beneath.

Dean was moving a lot more freely; his movements, though still slower than normal, lacked the pained staccato action Sam had become used to. The pain of his fractured sternum was easing by the day, gifting his arms with much more mobility (this meant he was now able to arrange his own hair, Sam was delighted to note), but he still relied heavily on Sam for the many other aspects of his life that were still encumbered by his broken leg, the most challenging of which was proving to be the putting on and removal of pants.

This morning was no different, and Sam soon found his services ingraciously called upon.

"Hey Sammy, help me on with my pants, an' …"

"No Dean, I won't touch your ass, I promise."

xxxxx

Having manoeuvred his brother's legs into his jeans, Sam was busy folding Dean's sweatpants away ready for the laundry when he heard an irritable growl behind him.

"Jeez, Sam, cant trust you with anything; you messed up the laundry again; freakin' jeans have shrunk."

Sam turned round, "can't see how I …"

He hesitated, staring at the little perfectly round paunch of Dean's belly bulging between the two straining sides of his fly, and stifled a chuckle.

"Um, I don't think the problem's with your jeans, man, I think the problem is that you need to lay off the Krispy Kremes."

Dean's face fell into a furious scowl; "you're talkin' crap, dude, nothin' to do with friggin' Krispy Kremes," he snorted ingraciously.

Sam shrugged, "you're a lot less active than you usually are, dude; two Krispy Kremes a day have gotta go somewhere!"

He glanced at the offending bulge again, and told himself sternly that it absolutely did not, in any way, look just a little bit cute.

"This has gotta be your fault," snapped Dean, sucking in a deep breath and battling manfully against the unyielding demin as his straining fingers fought to fasten the buttons.

"Why is it my fault?" Sam asked incredulously, throwing his hands up in surrender and trying to fight the fact he was about to burst into gales of helpless, gut-wrenching laughter.

"Dunno …. Guh … it j-just … nyaaah … is."

Dean struggled, he gyrated, puffed, panted and swore breathlessly and eventually, through white-knuckled, red-faced perseverance, he succeeded in fastening his fly.

"There bitch," he gasped in satisfaction; watering eyes staring up at Sam out of a beet-red face. He folded his arms as casually as it was possible to look while being suffocated.

Leaning over, he tried to steal a look at the straining button that had given him so much strife, just as it sprung off with the force of a trebuchet and smacked him in the forehead.

"Ooowww sonofabitch!"

Sam's fragile grip on his self-control dissolved, and he fell into gulping sobs of helpless laughter as Dean glared furiously at him, unaware of the reddening welt that was blossoming between his eyebrows.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Hermione, you're so naughty … 

... wish we could see that again!

xxxxx

Sam lay on the couch looking down through the hazy darkness at Dean as he slept. Turning in early, shortly after they had returned from the coffee shop, Dean had slipped into fatigue due to the painkillers he had taken when his leg began to ache later in the day.

Sam made a mental note to ask about it at tomorrow's appointment, because he knew perfectly well Dean wouldn't

His hand hung off the couch, grazing his sleeping brother's shoulder as he lay, leafing through his journal.

Waiting to see if he would see that little face again.

He smiled at the thought that he had acquired a well-meaning thirteen year old spirit as a bodyguard.

A spirit who made sure anyone who abused her charge would end up nursing a painful reminder of the error of their ways; and, by the looks of it, a humiliating one - she had clearly developed a sense of humour over the years.

He grinned when he thought she could give him and Dean a run for their money in the prank stakes, and he wished he could have known the little girl during her pitifully short life.

His eyelids had begun to droop in anticipation of another delicious nights sleep, when he heard a tiny voice; "goodnight Sam."

xxxxx

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

xxxxx

Dear journal

Once again, here we are, sitting in Doc Potters office looking at pictures I really don't want to be looking at. Why, oh why, do doctors think you really want to know all the freakin' gruesome details about knitting bones, and scar tissue?

Why can't they just say, 'yeah, everything's cool'?

Still it's looking better; it's only about three different colours now, instead of the fifteen it was at the last appointment.

Anyway, I suppose if I'm going to flake out, a doctors office is the place to do it!

xxxxx

The news was as good as the brothers could have hoped.

Doctor Potter waxed lyrical about the healing of Dean's chest, then his leg; 'remarkable' was the word he used - twice, Sam was thrilled to note. He even talked about 'starting physiotherapy after the next appointment'.

As the appointment progressed and the positive news was, by degrees, imparted; Sam watched Dean's tense shoulders loosen and slump softly in relief.

He knew that in the days leading up to the appointment, Dean had become increasingly nervous, and as a result, increasingly fractious. Sam had spotted a pattern over the weeks of Dean's incapacity; duly noted in his journal, whereby his brother's deep seated terror of being permanently physically limited grew in the days before each appointment.

In this case, Dean had been suffering some debilitating aches in his broken leg, and Sam knew that he had been scared half to death that it was a sign that things weren't right; that he was going to be broken; immobile for longer than he hoped, maybe for ever.

Completely normal, they'd been told by a smiling doctor Potter. Nothing at all to worry about.

And Doctor Potter or no Doctor Potter, those words were just downright frickin' magic as far as Sam was concerned.

xxxxx

Dear journal

I knew that Dean was scared, oh boy did I know.

And a scared Dean is a challenging Dean. Loud, unco-operative, obnoxious … Dean has a whole raft of coping mechanisms, and none of them are easy to live with.

xxxxx

As Doctor Potter wrapped up his consultation, Dean glanced across to his smiling brother; his wide eyes seeking out Sam's confirmation of the doctors reassurance.

Sam nodded; "lookin' good dude," he murmured and reached over in a silent gesture of support to surreptitiously squeeze Dean's elbow.

He smiled; so like Dean to blank the learned doctor's words, and only be completely reassured by what came from his brother's lips.

xxxxx

Sam strode alongside Dean as he crutched his way rapidly through the hospital. Dean was unstoppable; his good news had given him wings.

"Woah, slow it down Speedy," he yelled after Dean had almost blundered pell-mell into the obstetrics ward in his blind enthusiasm to escape.

Dean grinned; "dude, I'm friggin' invincible; it'll take more than a lousy car accident to total this chassis," he gestured toward himself and picked up speed on the crutches, heading dangerously close to genito-urinary medicine.

"Well, at least I suppose it's good that you're able to be more active," Sam laughed.

"I'm always active," Dean yelled behind him; "man of action, that's me!"

"Oh yeah?" Sam grinned evilly; "how come I'm not the one wearing one-size-larger jeans, then?"

Dean attempted a one finger salute as best he could while leaning on his crutches.

"C'mon Sammy, I'll treat you to one of your girlie half-caff, skinny chocolate-tutti-fruiti-caramel macchiatoes;" he winked, "gotta tell Shannon my good news."

Sam thrust his hands into his pockets and rolled his eyes; he was going to need clinical treatment for caffeine dependency once this whole episode was over.

Glancing back at the hospital, he was glad to be leaving but was also well aware that he would be back sitting in Doctor Potter's office with Bobby at the older man's fracture clinic appointment in just two days.

He turned back just in time to see Dean disappearing through the hospital's automatic doors, almost charging under the front of an ambulance in his haste.

xxxxx

Dear journal

Check that; caffeine dependency is good … bring it on. 

xxxxx

Bobby and Sam sat in Doctor Potter's office as the good Doctor, somewhat baffled to see Sam sitting in front of him yet again, explained that Bobby's foot was doing as well as could be expected for a man of Bobby's age.

Sam stifled a chuckle; he didn't need to see Bobby's toxic glare.

"Quite a whack you gave it," Potter smiled, "how did you manage to do that?"

"In my workshop," Bobby began reluctantly; "dropped a tin box-set of friggin' wrenches on my foot. I was pnly checkin' a few things, not proper workin' so I hadn't thought to put my steel toe-caps on."

"Oh, that's bad luck," Doc Potter grimaced in genuine sympathy.

"You're not wrong, son;" Bobby replied, "stupid thing is, I've no idea how the wrenches got where I found them. Either I'm goin' senile, or we've got a freakin' poltergeist, because they were stuck up on a high shelf where I would never have put something I use almost every day."

Neither man noticed Sam freeze at Bobby's words.

Around him, the conversation continued.

"Well I'm not a neurologist," replied Potter, "but I think I can safely say that you certainly aren't showing any of the classic signs of senility," he smiled a reassuring smile, "so I think we can safely put it down to an over-busy mind or Caspar the friendly ghost!"

Bobby snorted, warming gradually to the young medic; "yeah, well Caspar ain't no friend of mine if this is the kinda crap he does!"

They drove back to the house in the battered Camry, and Bobby talked enthusiastically about being able to get the cast off in two weeks and then being able to start work on the Impala. He speculated about letting Dean get involved in her rebuilding once he started his physiotherapy and when they knew what it was safe for him to do.

Sam didn't hear him, he was too busy thinking.

xxxxx

Dear journal

No, it can't be. You wouldn't do that …

Why would you?

xxxxx

That evening Sam lay on the couch clutching his journal as he stared through the darkness. In the guest bed beside him, he could hear Dean breathing the long even breaths of a deep and sound sleep that could only be granted by a mind totally at ease.

Sam stared at his journal.

"Hermione," he whispered, "are you there?"

There was a moments pause, and Sam watched as Dean shifted with a soft grunt, then settled back into a healing, dreamless slumber.

"Hello Sam."

His attention was jolted back to the journal. The cheerful little face had appeared on the first blank page as usual; but she didn't get her usual smile of welcome from Sam.

"Hermione, I need to ask you something," he murmured.

"Are you alright Sam?" she asked, clearly concerned; "I thought you were happy after your good news."

Sam stared at the face, desperate to tell himself that there was no trace of malice. This angelic little being was incapable of such a thought. It was a prank; just a prank that went wrong.

"Hermione, did you hide Bobby's wrenches?" He asked, "did you play a trick on him?"

The smile faded from the face as her eyes widened in guilty shock.

"I didn't play a trick," she replied; "I promise I didn't."

Sam frowned; "did you move his wrenches, Hermione? Please don't lie to me."

The little face saddened, her chin trembling as she nodded.

"Yes," the response was barely a whisper; "I hoped you wouldn't find out."

Sam felt his heart sink.

"Please don't be angry with me, Sam," she begged; "I couldn't bear it if you were angry with me."

Sam sighed; "I just want you to tell me why you did it, Hermione," he replied, "putting something that heavy in such a high place was very dangerous. if it wasn't a trick then why? Look what happened, poor Bobby hurt himself real bad."

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes, "I know," she whimpered, as her tears started to fall for real.

"I'm sorry Sam; I'm so sorry, but I intended for Bobby to get hurt."

xxxxx

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

xxxxx

Sam's jaw dropped in outraged shock at Hermione's statement.

"Sam, please …" she begged.

"No," Sam replied, trying to contain his anger; "we're done here. Dean is getting better every day and so is Bobby, I don't need any support any more."

"Sam please …" the little voice was barely coherent between her heartbroken sobs.

"I don't want to talk right now;" Sam closed the book angrily, and dropped it on the floor behind his bed.

He glanced down at his sleeping brother; "we can find Bambi without that sort of help," he muttered to himself.

Turning aggressively, he shrugged the quilt across his shoulder and settled into the sagging cushions on the couch ready for sleep.

But sleep was a long time coming.

xxxxx

The hazy morning sun shone brightly as Sam stepped into the yard, catching sight of two legs emerging from the underside of the Impala.

He could have sworn he heard muffled oaths from under the crippled car.

As he approached the listing chassis, Bobby rolled out on a flat buggy from between the two passenger side wheels; his jaw set in a knot of frustration.

"Hey Sam," he called towards the younger Winchester.

"Yo Bobby," Sam responded, looking down onto his horizontal friend.

"Can ya do me a favour?" Bobby asked, squinting against the bright sunlight as he wiped his oily hands on his filthy coveralls; "can ya shoot down to the hardware store in town for me?"

Sam shrugged, "yeah, sure," he smiled; "whad'ya need?"

Bobby waved a wrench in front of his face.

"Set of wrenches down there;" he pointed to a tin box on the ground beside him; "thirty five wrenches, all different sizes from freakin' tiny to freakin' enormous."

Sam nodded blankly; not entirely sure where Bobby was going with this.

"'Cept one's missin'," he pointed to an empty slot in the moulded plastic housing; "used it some time ago, lost it, ain't never got round to replacing it."

Sam nodded again, none the wiser.

"Guess which friggin' wrench I need for the work I'm doin' right now?"

Sam's face broke into a grin.

"The missing one?" he asked confidently.

Bobby sat up on his little buggy, and took a sip from a cup of cold, dust-coated coffee; "got it in one," he replied.

He handed Sam a slip of paper; "here's the measurements," he added, "can you pick me up this sized wrench, otherwise I can't finish this work, an' I might have to resort to usin' Dean's teeth to tighten this nut."

Sam grinned at the mental image.

He peered back into the house to see Dean sitting, his braced leg resting across the couch; one hand buried in a bag of M&M's, a cup of coffee hugged to his chest. His mouth drooped open very slightly as he sat, engrossed deeply in a badly dubbed, badly scripted and badly acted spaghetti western.

Sam smiled and guessed he wouldn't be missed for half an hour, it was almost lunchtime, he could pick up something Dean would enjoy as a surprise treat.

"Okay Bobby, be right back."

Xxxxx

Strolling through the aisles of Harpers Hardware, Sam squinted at the myriad of wrenches hanging on racks all around him. Why, for the love of God, did the planet need so many different sized wrenches?

He sighed; his lack of mechanical prowess was a source of great amusement to Bobby and Dean, and Sam was damn sure he wasn't going to fuel their entertainment any further by getting this simple errand wrong.

He was just scanning the second rack of wrenches when he heard an abrupt cry from the other end of the store.

Turning abruptly, he sprinted toward the sound; it had come from the cash register and he guessed that couldn't be good.

As he rounded a ceiling-high stack of paint cans, his heart leapt into his throat.

At the counter, a young female shop assistant stood, pressed against the wall, shaking in terror, grey tracks of mascara already working their way down her tear streaked cheeks.

A calendar lay on the floor at Sam's feet, knocked off the wall by the poor woman's shocked retreat; in front of her a masked man was pointing a shotgun at her head.

Momentarily collecting his senses, Sam cautiously spoke up; "hey man, put the gun down …"

It briefly passed through his mind that their layoff due to Dean's injury must have dulled his senses, because it wasn't until after he spoke, after the gun wielding youth whipped round on hearing Sam's voice; after his shotgun discharged, after the shop assistant's sobs rose into a shocked scream that Sam realised the raider was young, and inexperienced and therefore, most dangerous of all, skittish.

Glancing down, Sam's mouth gaped in breathless shock, seeing a blossom of dark crimson spreading rapidly across his chest. It was the last thing he saw before his eyes darkened and he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

xxxxx

"Sam …"

"SAM!"

Sam's eyes flicked open and focussed through the darkness on the worried face hovering over him.

His brother's pebble-wide eyes, pupils dilated in the moonless night, stared down on him.

"If you're gonna have a nightmare, can you do it freakin' quietly?" He snorted. Sam could feel the racing of Dean's heart through the fingertips that tightly gripped his shoulder; his brother's levity couldn't quite mask his concern.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Sam half-sat, panting as he stared up at Dean.

"Crap, dude," he eventually gasped, threading shaking fingers through his fringe; "just … yeah!"

"That musta been a doozy;" Bobby's sleep-dulled voice sounded across the room.

Sam's hand scraped over his face; and he swallowed hoarsely, lubricating his dry throat; "sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

He hesitated for moment, well aware of the two pairs of nervous eyes watching him closely, before he eventually spoke; "go back to sleep, I'm good."

"Oh no," Dean snapped; "you ain't goin' back to sleep until you've explained to me what that was all about."

Sam felt his breathing begin to steady.

"Uh, just a nightmare dude," he replied as calmly as he could manage.

"A nightmare," Dean repeated flatly.

"Yeah," Sam smiled; "a nightmare about a wrench."

Dean stared, his lips worked silently for an age before he eventually spoke. "Jeez an' I thought being scared of clowns was weird."

xxxxx

Sam listened quietly as Dean and Bobby settled back down, and it was little more than a few minutes before Bobby's snores were once again shaking the room.

He lay back and mulled over his dream.

It was whole buckets of crazy. Bobby under the impala, his foot fixed or maybe not even broken in the first place; the wrenches, the poor girl in the store, the calendar.

Sam thought about the calendar; he got a good look at it in his minds eye when he was standing over it, and racked his mind trying to remember the date it showed.

Yesterday's date; yes, that's it. Yesterday.

His mind raced.

Fumbling under his pillow, he reached for his phone and stared vacantly at the small illuminated screen. He logged into the internet, and typed Harpers Hardware into the search engine, watching as a myriad results appeared on the screen.

It was the first one extracted from the local news channel that chilled his blood.

'Hardware Store Raid'

Sioux Falls Police hold youth after hardware store shotgun holdup. No staff or customers were injured during the raid which took place at Harpers Hardware store in downtown Sioux Falls at around11 am this morning …

His heart began to race; the damn store was held up at exactly the date and time in his dream.

This was beyond weird.

xxxxx

"Sam…"

He almost dropped the phone as the small and familiar voice floated up from the floor behind him.

Rolling over, he picked the book up, opening it's recently abandoned pages.

"Hermione?"

The little face looked up at him disconsolately.

"Is my dream anything to do with you?" he asked hesitantly.

A nod.

"Hermione, I don't understand," Sam sighed; "what's going on? Is this because I was angry with you?"

She chewed her lip nervously and shook her head.

"I'm sorry to scare you," she began; "but I had to show you, you wouldn't let me explain and I couldn't bear that you thought I'd hurt Bobby because I was nasty."

"Well, wh-what … why …" Sam's words tailed off. He suddenly felt very bad.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Sam with her big grey eyes.

"You were cursed," she began.

"Yeah," Sam replied; "the witch."

Hermione nodded in agreement; "The witch. She said a beloved friend would hurt Dean more than he had ever been hurt before."

Sam nodded; "yeah, the Impala hurt Dean – he loves that car."

The shake of her head was barely perceptible. "No, it was to be Bobby."

Sam's mouth dropped open; "Bobby?"

A nod; "the Impala was just a means to an end."

Sam cocked his head, increasingly exasperated that he was utterly failing to understand what was going on.

"Bobby was cursed to send you to the store yesterday morning to buy his wrench, and while you were there, you interrupted a raid and were killed."

"That's what happened in the dream," Sam gasped.

"Bobby unwittingly sent you to your death. That's the worst hurt anyone could inflict on Dean," she explained; "not only that, it would have destroyed Bobby too."

Sam's jaw worked it's way further down with each word she spoke.

"If he couldn't work on the impala, he wouldn't need the wrench right then," she stated sadly; "when I first found you, I saw your fate, I knew I couldn't let it happen."

"Couldn't you have just warned me, then I could have told Bobby to stay away from the car?" Sam asked.

She shook her head; "dark curses like this one don't take kindly to being outwitted. If you had tried to avoid it, you would have angered the curse; it would have found a way for Bobby to destroy you."

"This had to be seen to happen accidentally; just a badly-timed happenstance of random bad fortune," she explained; "the Impala and Bobby's work on her was the weapon of the curse, and so the weapon had to become ineffective."

Sam nodded numbly.

"The only way to do that would be for Bobby to not be able to work on the Impala at all yesterday morning, and the only way that could be guaranteed would be for him to be physically incapable."

"I hated hurting Bobby, Sam," the little face grimaced as if the memory was painful; "I hated it so much, but the alternative was unthinkable."

"Now it's all behind you; the hold-up happened quietly and without any casualties; the raider was young and stupid, and the police had no problem catching him," Hermione smiled; "and because the curse's weapon was disarmed, the curse became toothless. It quietly withered away into nothing."

xxxxx

Dean awoke to a morning illuminated with eye-wateringly brilliant sunlight. He arched into a long and satisfying stretch, groaning his way through a lavish yawn and cautiously rolled over to face the couch, somewhat surprised to see Sam still asleep.

Laying on his side, Sam's body was curled protectively around the little blue journal which was enfolded in his long muscular arms close to his chest.

Dean rolled his eyes and flopped over onto his back; "I can't believe we're related."

xxxxx

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

xxxxx

Dear journal

I've thought long and hard about whether I should tell Bobby and Dean about you, Hermione, and what you did for us, and I've decided it wouldn't be fair to tell Bobby he almost sent me to my death; I can't do that to him.

And I don't know what it would take to convince Dean my journal is haunted by the benevolent spirit of a thirteen year old girl who wants to make up for her tragically early death by helping people. Dean has trouble accepting that spirits can be anything but ill-intentioned fugly skanks who need to be wiped out.

I'd be hiding the salt rounds from him day and night, and right now he needs to be concentrating on getting better. He needs to concentrate on his physiotherapy when it starts. Oh, and he needs to concentrate on those Harry Potter books he's been reading avidly, (yeah, that's right; the ones he says are a load of old kids' trash)

I will tell them one day, when the time is right. And Bobby will call me an idjit and Dean will chew my balls off for not telling him now, but I can only do what I think is right.

And this is what I think is right.

xxxxx

It had been two weeks but it seemed like only minutes before Sam and the trusty old Camry were heading once again to the hospital taking Bobby to have his cast removed.

In a short and pleasant consultation, Bobby nodded sagely, indicating his agreement with every word that emerged from Doctor Potter's mouth. 'Don't overdo it; keep it elevated when you're resting; do what the physiotherapist directs …'

Bobby had smiled warmly as he shook the good Doctor's hand, thanking him effusively for his help and support and then promptly ignored every word the poor man said by disappearing under the wreck of the Impala faster than a rat up a drainpipe as soon as they got home.

Bobby's new found freedom, however, simply served to strengthen Dean's deepening desperation to accelerate his own healing process, and rediscover life on two legs.

Sitting forlornly beside his poor broken girl day after day watching Bobby work was a torture Sam couldn't hope to imagine; every fibre in Dean's antsy body was crying out to discard the restricting, itchy brace and start regaining some mobility, some independence.

Some pride.

Doctor Potter had talked about Dean starting his physiotherapy if the next fracture clinic appointment went well. Sam hoped it would go well; he hoped it would go well more than anything he had ever hoped for before.

As the appointment approached and both brothers became more and more apprehensive, Bobby found himself seeking sanctuary in his workshop or under the Impala as often as he could get away with it to escape the trauma of living around a pair of bickering bundles of jangling, bowstring-tight nerves.

He desperately hoped it would go well too!

xxxxx

Dear journal

Dean's appointment is tomorrow. 

Doctor Potter doesn't know it; but he holds my future sanity in his hands.

Hermione … HELP!

xxxxx

Thus it was that the day of Dean's appointment dawned with the crystal bright sunlight of a crisp winter morning, and hoping it was a sign of good things to come, Sam loaded Dean into the faithful old battered Camry and together, they set off with no small sense of foreboding.

xxxxx

Four hours later, the sun had reached it's zenith and Bobby was tucked away in the shade of his workshop when the Camry pulled back into the yard with a shuddering rattle and a terminal snort of blue smoke. Rising cautiously, he wandered over to the car, his limp now barely noticeable, just as Sam climbed out.

Their faces met, and Sam's split into the broadest grin Bobby had seen for a long time.

"Look what I've got," he smiled, opening the door, and watching joyfully as two crutches appeared followed by a one smiling brother, and zero unsightly leg braces.

Dean shuffled round on his crutches to face Bobby who noticed a smear of cherry-red lipstick across his lips.

"Shannon was pleased," he smirked, crutching past Bobby into the house.

"He starts physiotherapy next week;" Sam explained, breathless with excitement, to Bobby.

Wiping his hands on his coveralls, seemingly unconcerned by the fact he was making them dirtier, Bobby smiled proudly.

Time to break out the beers.

xxxxx

The days continued to sail by and before they knew it, the brothers found themselves sitting patiently in the waiting room of the hospital's physiotherapy department.

"Well this is it," Sam smiled; "the start of your proper recovery."

Dean grinned, hugging his crutches; "yeah, 'bout time. Bambi, you hairy sonofabitch; your days are freakin' numbered!" He rubbed his hands gleefully.

"Hey Sam?"

"What?"

"Maybe the physiotherapist's hot; that'd be awesome!"

Sam sighed; "if you say so, Dean."

xxxxx

Dear journal

Is it wrong of me to hope the physio is a dude?

xxxxx

Sam didn't have too long to hope, for it was right at that moment that a woman, in retrospect Sam was fairly sure she was a woman, marched across the waiting room and nodded pleasantly toward the brothers. She had at least three inches and fifty pounds on Dean, but it wasn't so much that as the buzz-cut and the Maori tattoos on her arms that grabbed Dean's attention.

Sam grabbed him before he could make a break for it.

"Man, did you see the size of that?" Dean squawked, bug eyed in panic; "she looks like she eats furniture!"

"Dean, if she's good at her job, it doesn't matter if she's a bit - uh - scary," he worked hard to coax his skittish brother; "she's the best in the business; Doctor Potter personally recommended her."

Dean pressed himself against the wall, looking distinctly unconvinced; "dude, she'll snap me like a twig!"

As they both looked up, the scary lady walked back past them and delivered a warm smile, closing her clinic door behind her.

The brothers both stared at the nameplate on the door.

'Senior Phys. Val DeMorte'

xxxxx

Dear journal

Dean's still surprisingly nimble for a guy with one leg.

These carpet burns will take a month to heal …

xxxxx

Sam wasn't entirely sure whether it was more due to Dean's overwhelming desire to heal or his initial wariness of 'Conan the Physiotherapist' as he had christened her (not to her face, sam noted), but Dean took to the physiotherapy better than anyone could have dared to hope.

Together, Sam and Bobby would watch him night after night, carrying out his prescribed exercises with admirable dedication, dutifully counting each repetition, (it was when the tip of his tongue poked out, a little to the left, that they knew he was concentrating hardest), resting when directed; and Sam was compelled to ask on more than one occasion; "who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

Dean's response each time reassured him that there was nothing wrong with the middle finger of his right hand.

Sam was under orders to back off. 'What a patient can do by himself, he does by himself,' that's what the physiotherapist said; and who was Sam to argue? He sure as hell wasn't going to argue with a woman who was bigger than him.

With sterling assistance from Sam and Bobby, Dean worked faithfully and conscientiously and rewarded his devoted family one morning when four months after the accident he was able to take his first few faltering steps without support.

From that point Sam knew there would be no stopping his brother; it was a moment to savour, a moment to record in his journal.

That night, he slumped on his couch and picked up his journal;, opening it up, he paused. He knew that while a new, exciting chapter of this whole tale was beginning, another, older one had to close.

xxxxx

Dear journal

I can't believe it. I've reached the last page of my little book.

Dean's first steps will have to be my final entry; it's a good thing to end on I suppose, but I've still got so much to say, so much to record, and I never did get to the bit where we find Bambi.

xxxxx

Sam looked up as a small voice spoke.

"But you will."

"Hermione?"

"You will achieve your aim, Sam. I just won't be there to see it with you."

Sam nodded mutely, he'd guessed this time was going to come for some time now, he just didn't know when.

"We've both reached the end, Sam," there was a quiet sigh; "this is where I leave you; there are other people that need my help now."

"I-I don't know what to say;" Sam whispered; "I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did."

Hermione's face gazed out of the last page of the journal.

"Live your life, Sam; help those that need it, that's all the thanks I could ever want."

She smiled one last time, her gaze lingering as if it was hard to pull away; "Goodbye Sam."

"Goodbye Hermione."

And then she was gone.

Sam stared at the blank page and slowly closed the journal, slipping it under his pillow. Looking up, he gazed out of the window at the last grey tendrils of dusk disappearing behind the unlit black hulk of Bobby's workshop until, lost in his thoughts, his eyes drifted out of focus, and sleep claimed him.

He wasn't surprised when he reached under the pillow the following morning to find the book was gone.

Someone else would be discovering the joys of his little blue book soon; he was happy about that.

And just a tiny bit sad too.

xxxxx

But Hermione was right.

Reflecting on the brothers' rollercoaster journey, Sam frowned as he thought of his own terrified despair at seeing Dean broken in every sense of the word; he remembered accompanying Dean through the peaks and troughs of his long and arduous recovery, the added hurdles of Bobby's injury, Dean's frustration and Sam's own propensity to fear the worst. He smiled at the thought of seeing Dean gradually gain strength, mobility and confidence, and seeing the Impala come back to life under Bobby's expert hands. Then there was the best thing of all; Dean's five unaided steps across the kitchen floor this morning.

No-one and nothing could stand in the way of a determined Winchester; Sam knew they would achieve their aim - Bambi was so screwed!

xxxxx

Finally, the brothers could look forward to their normal lives; to being back on the hunt, to their future.

A future that neither of them would have had if it wasn't for a little blue book with a magic secret.

It was a tale worthy of the boy wizard himself!

xxxxx

end

epilogue to follow ...


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's talked the talk, now can he walk the walk?

Epilogue

xxxxx

In the end it was fourteen months to the day that Sam and Bobby deemed Dean to be strong and mobile enough to head back out to Wild Acres and see to some unfinished business.

This was to be the first major physical activity the brothers had embarked on together since Dean's accident; Sam intended to use it to gauge Dean's readiness for going back to their day job which Dean was clearly keen to do. He figured this was a good, relatively safe experiment; there was only so much trouble anyone could get into hunting something as harmless as a deer, surely?

In fact, Sam was quietly surprised that Dean was even still persisting with carrying through his vendetta. In the early days, he had guessed it had just been Dean's frustration talking, especially as Dean had never demonstrated any particular talent or enthusiasm for killing animals in the past, especially 'cute' ones.

But no; his brother was adamant. They were going to treat Bobby to a sumptuous venison dinner for all of his awesome support, and that was aside from the small matter of Dean's catastrophically wounded body and pride. Yes, there was serious vengeance for a year of trauma to be had; it was shaping up to be a very bad day indeed for Bambi.

Thus it was that in the hazy pink light of dawn and armed with Bobby's best hunting rifle, complete with telescopic sight, the boys saddled up the newly rebuilt Impala and set off.

It took them several hours to make the journey back to Wild Acres. Several hours of Sam listening to an elated brother on how great the Impala's new paint job was, how smoothly her engine was running, how completely awesome it was to be driving her again, how fantastic it was that he could finally bend his leg enough to clip his own toenails (Sam agreed enthusiastically on this one) and whether he was going to have his venison medium or rare.

The lonely gravelled parking lot on the edge of the forest was a very welcome sight for Sam.

Clambering stiffly out of the Impala, they stretched the kinks out of their backs after their long drive and savoured the fresh fall breeze. "D'y need your walking cane?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head, shrugging the rifle over his shoulder; "nah, enough to carry already." Sam rolled his eyes, nodding in understanding, then took it along anyway.

xxxxx

The brothers had been picking their way through the undergrowth for about an hour, Sam noting gladly that Dean, having steamed off ahead, seemed to be managing admirably over the uneven terrain. He was moving with distinct purpose but, more importantly, with care; they both knew the consequences of something as innocuous as a turned ankle were too frightening to contemplate.

When it had first been removed from it's cast, Dean's left leg had been horribly wasted; a pasty, emaciated and weakened shadow of it's twin. Its frighteningly skeletal appearance made it appear, Dean noted with great umbrage, even more bowed than it did when its shape was thickened and softened with a healthy layer of muscle, and poor Doctor Potter had come in for a lot of abuse because he didn't think to 'straighten the friggin' thing while he was down there'.

It had taken about six months of dedicated work for Dean and his 'scary' physiotherapist who, over the months he had come to adore, to build the injured leg up to match the same stocky musculature of his other leg. Now, scars notwithstanding, any physical difference between Dean's two legs was practically invisible, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to notice the difference in performance between them. Dean's formerly pronounced limp was barely noticeable now, only really coming to the fore when his leg became 'tired' as Sam was sure it would be by the end of today, and then Dean's hated cane would come into it's own.

Sam's train of thought was rudely derailed when he suddenly barrelled into his brother's rock-solid back.

"There," Dean muttered, seemingly unconcerned that Sam had almost garotted himself over his shoulder.

"Where?" Sam replied, rubbing his throat.

Dean pointed through a gap in the trees, and there in the centre of a small clearing was a young buck, standing relaxed in the dappled fall sunlight.

"There he is, the bastard," grinned Dean.

Sam studied the oblivious creature as it softly ruminated; "how do you know it's him? It's not like he's wearing a name badge or anything."

Dean turned, glaring at Sam. "He's the same friggin' species. That's good enough for me," he muttered sulkily; "some hairy douchebag's gonna pay for what Bambi did to me, so pseudo-Bambi here will have to do."

He grinned,"look at those freakin' haunches; we're gonna dine well tonight baby bro!"

Sam rolled his eyes. Revenge is a dish best served with baked potato, glazed carrots and a red wine sauce...

The brothers inched forward, creeping silently through the underbrush until they reached the edge of the clearing.

Never taking his eyes from the tawny creature in front of him, Dean slowly raised the rifle.

Sam held his breath.

xxxxx

Suddenly pseudo-Bambi looked up, straight into the eyes of his would-be assassin.

Glimmering green met liquid jet.

Glimmering green narrowed dangerously as a finger curled around the trigger; liquid jet gazed passively from under long, tawny lashes.

Glimmering green twitched; liquid jet gave a languid blink.

Glimmering green stopped glimmering and disappeared behind eyelids closing in exasperated defeat.

"Oh Jesus Sam; I can't friggin' do it! How the heck am I supposed to kill somethin' that looks like that? Huh? Huh?"

Sam stifled a chuckle.

"The hairy bastard's hypnotised me."

Sam shook his head, doubling over with gleeful laughter; "sorry dude, you were always a sucker for a soppy face. Did you ever really think for one moment that you'd be able to stand here and kill a deer in cold blood?"

"Yes," barked Dean indignantly; "I'm a freakin' hunter; killing stuff is what I do!"

"Not sweet, big-eyed, fluffy stuff," Sam grinned wickedly.

The brothers stood and watched as pseudo-Bambi lowered his head and briefly explored the primroses around his feet, then loped quietly away into the forest.

Dean turned and pointed aggressively toward Sam. "We are SO not telling Bobby about this!"

xxxxx

Bobby glanced at the clock and put down the book he was reading, smiling when he heard the Impala pull up in the yard under the dusky brown shadows of twilight.

His smile broadened when the brothers walked into the house, and twitched slightly when he saw they were empty handed.

Where's Bambi? he asked, watching as Dean snorted and trudged into the living room.

"Uh, we couldn't find any - uh - deer, they, um, never showed up," Sam responded unconvincingly.

There was brief silence.

"Tinkerbelle in there couldn't do it could he?" Bobby nodded in the direction of the living room.

Sam shook his head, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing.

"Just the thought of that soppy great lunk killing a deer..." Bobby grinned, shaking his head; "good job I just put a stew in the oven then, ain't it!"

xxxxx

Th-that's all folks!


End file.
